I'm standing in line at the liquor store, my mother by my side. I hoist my plastic basket onto the Formica counter, the collection of bottles clinking in symphony. The register chirps as the first barcode is scanned.
My mother quietly watches the employee reach for another bottle.
"I drink when I write," I explain.
"You're buying five bottles."
"Yeah, well, I'm writing a lot."
My mother glances into her own hand-basket, eyes the lone bottle leaning against one side. Then she looks up.
"Maybe I should start writing too," she says.