Mother calls to ask what fracking is. I answer as best I can, but mother, with not a lot to do save stay in bed and watch TV, keeps me on the line. In search of something, anything, to talk about we take up the weather. The weather in New York versus the weather in Texas. Then her doctors’ appointments. Her meds. The road to hell, don’t you know, is paved with mundanities, mundanities, mundanities. Mother resorts to “What?” & “Huh?” when she doesn’t—when she can’t—hear all I’ve said, which is often. Drives me crazy. So I turn to humor, “You know what,” I say, “Frack you, Sylvia.” To which she responds, “No, frack you, Steven!” We hang up. No good-bye. No “love you!” You might say I’m a poor steward of Mother’s life. I might say I at least inject some fracking life into this, our earthly existence.