Before we went to brunch, Mom and I waited in her living room for it to be time to leave, she on her petite sofa, me at her table by the sliding-glass door. She had washed her hair that morning and...

My mom moved into her retirement community three years ago this July. On the way back from Mother’s Day brunch, as she rode her scooter in the long hallway and I walked along side, I asked, “How do...

At my mom’s, outside the sliding-glass door in her living room, across the narrow stone patio and a swath of grass bright green from recent rain, there is a cherry tree. Cornus mas. It is about 20...

Last week, I argued with reality: “She shouldn’t just push her empty plate at me and expect me to pick it up.” “He should help, or at least call.” “I should be making more progress on my book.”...

I am back at my mom’s again, this time by automobile rather than airplane because I don’t know how long I will need to be here. On other trips I have come out of obligation (could she tell?), with...

“What thoughts do I allow myself to think at breakfast?” I read that recently somewhere. I thought it was in one of Steven Pressfield’s Writing Wednesdays blog posts but can’t find it now. The point...