During my visit home, my mother took me shopping. I resist these trips now because she runs so many errands it shoots the entire day, but she promised me a book store. We went to a Barnes and Noble where I picked up a few children’s books and some teen magazines for the kids. I was standing there leafing through a bright pink book with the title, “HOT SEX” (by Tracey Cox) emblazoned on the cover when my mom came over to ask if I was ready to leave already and what are you reading? I’m 44 and I still found it embarrassing.

Smaller even than last time, and that seemed impossible. News on, same half-dozen stories repeating all day as other, unrelated stories repeat in captions, very confusing. Air conditioning hums and cold air from the vents causes the blinds to swing lightly, click against the window panes. Little dog barks and is incontinent. Where is a conversational opening? He’s hard of hearing, gets less than half of what you say, guesses most. Deep private final conversation at a shout in a crowded room? Forget it.
“You mean you finished that whole book?” he asks.
“I watched you read,” he says.
“I watched you sleep,” I say.

Sometime during my visit to my relatives last week it dawned on me that I am and always have been a huge jerk. My wife did not act surprised when I told her.