The stairs to the basement have become more and more difficult for Mom and Dad to go up and down the stairs to the basement. Each step is a labor, descending a focused effort not to slip or fall, and ascending a herculean effort to climb. Their trips to the basement to retrieve canned goods or to put their DVDs back on the bookshelves have dwindled to a minimum. Mom piles clean folded sheets and cans of fruit and NCIS DVDs and rolls of toilet paper on the top stair, allowing sufficient accumulation to warrant the long trip to the cool dark basement. I see these stacks as my cue to take the trip myself, putting things in their places. The routine has become a game Mom and I play, with her piling the items neatly on the stair, and me running them downstairs to their nooks and shelves and cupboards. I don’t mind—I like putting things away neatly in their places. And we do not even need to coordinate—the task is simple and understood by us both, with not another word said. Speaking of which, it is time for the next season of NCIS.