Lines to the Middle of Nowhere.

Eleven thirty nine: The television is still on in our front room. My mother is sitting, legs crossed, fully awake, in the easy chair identical to my father's. The women on the television drone on in overexcited voices about some new wonder product and abusing the beautiful models by putting them in oversized clothing and hideous make-up. I've notice recently that the older my mother has gotten, the more often I've caught her watching infomercials and shopping networks long after the clock hands pass midnight. Together, we used cry ourselves into hysterical laughter at the mishaps and hilarious "self improving" products; hap-hazard knife salesmen and tree stumps in a garage. A bandaged thumb. As I walk through the living space to get a glass of water from our kitchen, I pause a moment to watch a demonstration on "Literally the best eye make up ever, literally."  "Oh! This one is new, I've never seen this lady on here before." My mother and I...