A sense of melancholy has overtaken me tonight. After a fairly uneventful day at work, I went to see my mom as I always do, and instead of sinking mindlessly into her couch to watch college football all afternoon, I decided to actually follow through with an idea that struck me earlier in the day: to take my mom book shopping with me.

For me, book shopping is a fairly standard thing: I am a voracious reader and therefore spend inordinate amounts of time at Books-a-Million, Barnes & Noble and the like. My mom is a voracious reader as well, except she has vast expanses of time to enjoy it,  and yet no way to get her hands on anything new unless I provide it.

You see, my mom is 83 years old and no longer drives. She gave that up 5 years ago at the behest of my brother and me. I know it was the best decision -- slower reflexes and poor vision had made her a danger behind the wheel, but she is now at the mercy of others to go anywhere and do anything. I do my best; off days are spent running errands and fulfilling the obligations of numerous doctor's appointments.  Mom's health isn't great, but it's the best I can hope for, for this 12-year breast cancer survivor. Chemo saved her life but ruined her bone marrow. And her immune system. And the entire chemical makeup of her body. And yet she survived against some pretty stiff odds. Her hearing is almost gone and she has trouble getting around, but my mom's mind is as sharp as ever. Because she reads.

She's worked her way through almost my entire library. She could probably give Maura Isles or Kay Scarpetta herself a run for their money after reading every Patricia Cornwell novel I own ((which is all of them.)  She devoured Gregory David Roberts' 1000-page masterpiece Shantaram and barely came up for air until she was through. (I'm still somewhere about the 500-page mark three weeks later, but I have been busy.)  This week it was The Help by Kathryn Stockett.

But my mom would probably be scandalized if she knew how much I spend on books. She lived  through the Depression, and that struggle for survival is a scar that she carries deep within her soul. Money is not to be spent frivolously or excessively, and living on Social Security, she doesn't really have any extra to spend (and is too proud to allow me pick up the tab on much. Believe me, I try.)  So I came up with the perfect solution: I took her to The Book Attic, a nifty and quite well-organized used book store. It was like seeing a little kid turned loose in a candy store with a pocket full of money. I can't believe I'd never thought of this before. And then I took her to BAM and when she protested, I told her about their sale tables and markdowns. SCORE!!

I was thrilled that such a simple afternoon could give her such pleasure, and yet I was disappointed in myself for not doing this sooner. I get so bogged down in all of the necessities of filling prescriptions, and going to the hospital for tests and checkups that I forget that this is also a necessity: an afternoon spent enjoying a basic pleasure. I realize that she won't be with me forever, and I need to make a solid effort to ensure that she gets to enjoy happy times that she so richly deserves.