as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine Every now and then one of my readers will ask about my mother. The reason I don’t write about her more often is because my beautiful wife can always tell when I’ve been crying. When I cried at my mother’s funeral, she asked if it was because of my haircut. I write about my father by default. When my mother died, my wife and I--mainly my wife--made the decision to invite my elderly, pre-Alzheimer’s father to move in with us. His good years were mainly behind him. He went from being someone who could fix anything to someone who could break anything at any time at the worst possible moment. I’m not particularly handy, so it’s been a chore. My youngest sister took care of my mother the last years of her life, and I’m grateful to her. Bathing my mother and changing her diaper, well, let’s just say I’m not half the man my sister is. My father, for the most pa...