Beneath her floral shampoo, I swore I could detect it: the tinny scent of recycled air. It gave me a thrill, almost arousal, from pondering whether she noticed something similar in me, that elephant odor of aged skin.

Your father held one of your mother’s notebooks where she wrote the names and addresses of the homes she cleaned. A few sticky notes stuck out like orange tongues from the notebook as he flipped through the pages.

Oh, terribly undisciplined. I've never been the writer who sits down at a desk in the morning and writes every day—I just couldn't. I have gotten better about it, and less precious—letting myself write on my phone, for example, rather than needing a perfect environment.