From Salon

MY SON, JACK, was looking over my shoulder at my iTunes and saw a playlist I’d made, entitled “Tears.”

“’Tears?’” he asked.

I hesitated, wondering if I should say: these are just sad songs, you know me, I like the morbid stuff, or if I should tell him the truth. I decided on the latter.

“These are songs that make me cry,” I said.

Because he’s got my number, Jack did not ask, “Why the hell would you do that?” He just nodded sympathetically, hand on my shoulder, whirring wheels in his mind almost audible. Then he was off. . .       Read essay