I took one of the blankets my mother kept out for decoration and comfort and wrapped it around myself, breathing in this sweet smell. My parents' living room was vast and clean. A large recliner could fit into the hearth of the fireplace, which was laden with dry cedar wood. Father loved getting a good fire going. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound or hardcover books never once cracked lined either side of the fireplace. An upright piano buried under columns of sheet music and cookbooks in one corner, a wood-paneled record player father could never get rid of standing in the other. A single album cover sat on top of the record player. If I needed a reminder, I could just look at my parents' flat screen hanging on the far wall. Two thick bath towels were draped over it. Bits of glass still glittered on the floor. Since the beginning of the end, it had suffered the fate of every television, as well as every computer, cell phone, or any other electronic device, for that matter.