Random thoughts led me to the memory of my worries whenever my mother would not respond to my calls because she could not hear the phone. Most often, I would call her in Reading from London, but on occasion I would call her from abroad. As she advanced in age, she became increasingly hard of hearing. I got her a portable phone, but she could not hear it in the livingroom if she forgot it in the kitchen. This would happen often enough, especially after my father ended up in a nursing home. On such occasions, I would call over and over again. The interval between calls would shrink. Ever more worried, I would call every minute or so. By the time she would pick up the phone and respond in a calm voice, I would be in a complete frenzy. But then my thoughts led me to the logical conclusion that my mother’s death eventually liberated me from all this. For a split second, I was mortified by my stark inference, but I quickly let myself off the hook by pointing out—to myself, I presume—that my brain and I were not exactly the same thing. True, but the sting of conscience is still with me, as witnessed by these apologetic words.