“Oh, I’m fine, Honey. How are you?”
“Holding my own.”
“I was just thinking about you, Joy.”
“Nothing good, I hope.”
“Oh, it was good.”
“Mom, don’t blow my image. I still haven’t finished the laundry, so instead of going over tonight, I was thinking of going over tomorrow: we could have brunch, set some traps, straighten up, and take out a few of your recyclables. Would that work?”
“Sure, Honey.”
“Just one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Mom, you just said you were ‘thinking about’ me. Does that mean that there are moments you aren’t thinking about me?”
“Of course not.”
The right answer! And I never inflicted flash cards upon her! Which is more than I can say . . . anyway, all is well. All I ask, as someone who was born in 1962, is that I am (1) the center of my parents’ respective universes, and (2) the focal point for all other human endeavor, unless I am not in the mood for suchmdash;in which case they should go away until I am in the mood.
That is all.
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