Behind me rises the rumbling echo of a kettle drum, followed by a fusillade of horns. Another episode has begun. I turn to see fireworks in a night sky. A moment later, an enormous white moon rises above the jagged skyline of the city through a smattering of clouds until Jackie Gleason's unmistakably buoyant face takes shape on the moon's surface: the man in the moon, the celestial star of The Honeymooners. An enthusiastic, disembodied voice narrates the scene as Gleason's face is replaced by his name. On a separate moon orbiting just to the left appears the main title: “The Honeymooners.” The names of other stars follow, stamped on separate moons—Art Carney, Audrey Meadows, Joyce Randolf—until all the moons dissolve back into fireworks, foreshadowing the explosive but somehow affirmative action to come, as the music reaches its swift crescendo.
        I don't actually observe most of this. I've turned back to Mother, whose own gaze has swung toward the screen, watching the Kramdens' cosmos form into being, as if her own life and the universe itself were rekindling before her eyes.
        This, then, is the main reason I am here: To remind, recall, rekindle. To help Mother retain certain images on the shrinking screen of her mind's eye—glimpses of Father, me, her five grandchildren and both their mothers, her own parents, George Harrison Hale and Minnie Wilhelmina Hale, her one-armed brother George Jr., sisters Dottie and Eleanor, everyone who has ever loved her—until finally the screen goes dark and there is no room left for anything at all.
        I open the drawer of the lamp and withdraw a 3 X 5 inch photograph.
        “Remember this, Mom?”
        She leans forward to peer at the image I am holding less than a foot in front of her nose. Her brow tightens with concentration.
        I decide to help her. “That's Dad holding David when he was only a baby.”
        “Mmmm.”
        Her eyes narrow as she studies the image. Father is wearing a white V-neck T-shirt and paint-splattered beige pants. It's December, 1981. Father is almost 67 as he holds David is his lap, cradling the baby's head just above his own knees. David lies on his back in baby blue pajamas, smiling up at his grandfather with hands balled into fists, as if ready to box. Father is clearly amused by this pugilistic posture, prompting a smile as luminous as the flashbulb's reflection off his bare skull. In the picture, I hover just above Father, staring red-eyed at the camera (who took this photo—Mother or Mary?) with a loopy grin and a head of hair so dark brown I can hardly recall the boy-man looking back at me. The reclining chair Father leans forward in is only a year or two old, but its surface is covered by a white thermal blanket. The chair is the last piece of furniture the Hellers will purchase for the house I grew up in. When this picture was taken, my parents really weren't that poor any more, but they would always behave as if they were. At the bottom left corner of the picture I can see one of Father's shoes, mummified with gray duct tape.

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