My father and I are outside on a city street. I point up half a block and say, "There, that's the house I was thinking of buying. I like it." He says, "Let's go look at it." I feel reluctant, like I was just talking about it and not really that interested. I look again, and I say, "Oh, it wasn't that house; that's a church. I meant one further on a block or two." He says, "Let's go." I hesitate. He says, "Is it too far to walk?" I agree it is. Then we are at the front door of the house and ask the woman who lives there, and if we can take a look around. She agrees. We come in and walk through the hall, and turn right, the living room. I look closely at the size of the room and how much furniture fits into it, being aware that I ordinarily do not look that critically at a room and then have a faulty memory of it. I see a large ornate china cabinet, couches and two Christmas trees. An old woman sits in a chair; she is ill. I encourage her. Now I go to the first of three or four bedrooms. It is the old woman's room. There's a single, thin bed, a TV set, a closet. It's crowded, a small room. Next we go to the next bedroom, which is a bit larger. Then we go to the master bedroom, which is huge, beautiful, with lovely furniture, lots of windows, all the curtains matching. I say to the woman owner, "This is a lovely room. My mother is on the tour and asks her when she is moving. She says she has no intention of moving. We go to the next room and more rooms seem to present themselves -- a dining room, a central kitchen. We have gone full circle around the house. I turn back and can see the master bedroom through the window of the kitchen and I see a beautiful fountain, a water fountain. I point it out to my mother, who looks in the wrong direction. I keep pointing and trying to give her verbal direction, but she just can't see it. I say, "By the brick fireplace." She just can't see it. I give up. We leave, thanking the woman owner for the tour.