Ned notices the intensity of Ginsberg's attention, has seen the way he's seemed to anticipate coming to this particular painting in his body language as they approached. The first thing he thinks is that he likes it: the woman looks interesting, animated, as if she's about to open her mouth and say something at any moment. There's a kind of life to certain portraits, a way of capturing personality in the lines and color of the face that Ned likes but doesn't understand.

Then he hears what Ginsberg says and he can feel his heart beat a bit faster, knows this must be a delicate topic and he should proceed with caution.

"I don't think it's weird," Ned says, quietly, seriously. He looks at the portrait again, with this new information, wonders what it was about this one in particular that convinced Ginsberg as a child to grant it that particular meaning. Perhaps he shouldn't push any further, but he's not the one who introduced the topic, so perhaps he can venture a little further.

"You don't have a picture?" It's a neutral question, as far as he's concerned. Not asking what happened to her - if she abandoned him or died, or whatever else. Not asking how he feels about it, not asking for a story if he doesn't want to tell one. And, Ned realizes after he says it, it makes sense to him as a question, because he has a picture of his mother. Just one. But it's something that he treasures.