My friend asked the question out of the blue. I was spending the night with my friend, Larry, and I was lying on a twin bed in the corner of his room.
“What do you think about your mom being gone?” he asked.
It didn’t strike me as a difficult or important question, but something about the experience has burned everything about it into my memory. I was about 10 or 11 years old. Although my mother had been away from us off and on for years, the divorce had been final only for a year or two. She had no custody or official visitation.
I considered Larry’s question for a long moment. I felt very cold. Very hard. There was no emotion in my voice.
“I couldn’t care less if she moved to the Sahara Desert,” I said.
That’s all I said and Larry didn’t ask any more. It’s a good thing, because I might have cried if he had pushed to know what I meant. I was confused. I couldn’t tell if I felt nothing or if I felt more than I could handle. I swept the feelings under a rug in my heart — and I left them there.

Memo to Republicans: Your serious contenders are hypocrites, too
It’s hard to nurture what’s alive when you water dead flowers
Obama administration wants to choose skin color of your neighbors
My unconscious choices on love say much about women and me
We forget how to be happy, but children and animals remember
FRIDAY FUNNIES
I’ll make fun of your Super Bowl, but you can’t make fun of my Spock ears
UK-based philosopher: Tax money paid to state is actually ‘charity’