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My firstborn suggests the novel he completed.

“Give this a try,” he tells me, offering a frequently handled softcover, which I look at in my hands.

“Blue,” I respond.

“Indeed, it's a blue cover,” he says. “Originally in another language, and the plot is subtle, but it's enjoyable.”

“Alright,” I answer. “I'm in the middle of another book, but I'll bring it on vacation.”

“Now I need a new book,” he says. “Any ideas?”

This is unprecedented. I've suggested countless books to my boys, but to my knowledge they have never read any of them. My spouse ignores the reads I endorse, although I consistently finish the titles she hands me. Actual publishers at times seek me out to provide blurbs for books, but at home my suggestions in these matters is both unsolicited and ignored. Until now.

“Hmm,” I say, thinking deeply. “I'll consider.”

“I need to leave soon,” he adds.

“My current read is mediocre,” I say, “My last book was your idea.”

“Death Comes for the Archbishop,” he recalls. “An amazing read.”

“That’s not what I would write if I was asked to provide a blurb for a future edition,” I note. “Still, it was enjoyable.”

“My train goes in 12 minutes,” he informs me.

“Wait here,” I instruct.

I head to the lounge and, by chance, spot right away a specific hardcover.

“Give this a shot,” I suggest. “I read it when it came out. It’s like a period thing.”

“When is it set?” he queries.

“What am I, a historian?” I reply. “Olden times.”

“Okay,” he says, studying the front.

“Historical but humorous and enjoyable,” I say.

He pulls his Kindle out of his backpack, enters the name and gives it back.

“I'll try it,” he states, heading for the front door.

This feels like an important moment: the start of an era during which my recommendations is both sought and heeded. I look for my middle child, considering suggesting that book to him, but he's out.

I start the mediocre novel I'm in the middle of – close to completing – and wonder: why bother?

A short time after I get a mysterious message sent by my firstborn. I go through it again, but it makes no sense. Eventually it dawns on me that it's probably an excerpt from the novel I suggested, an example of the olden times language employed.

I take the title from the kitchen table and begin reading. In a little while I see the same text from the text message, within the early pages. However, by that point my mouth is hanging open in horror.

“I remembered not one thing about it,” I tell my wife later. “None of the personas, not a single name, zilch.”

“Books don't stick with me I’ve read,” she admits.

“It’s not just that,” I clarify. “I recalled certain elements from the opening that aren't actually present, probably from another title.”

“It happens,” she notes.

“I’m going around recommending books to people,” I state. “Novels I effectively didn't read.”

“Age is catching up,” my spouse remarks. “Move on.”

But I can’t get over it. That evening in bed I can't sleep, looking at the books on the bedside table, attempting to recall one key detail regarding those titles. I think of a quote on a book cover that says, “Like a period thing, but funny, and good.” The accumulated understanding from every book I've finished has vanished, I think, or at any rate isn't within me.

I pick up the average read I am currently reading – close to completing – and wonder: why bother?

A few days after I'm in the terminal, waiting on a seat by the café with my wife and three other couples. It's the off-peak time, during which older couples vacation. Each person in the terminal matches our generation.

Eventually, the topic turns to books: titles we've finished, or currently enjoying, or could pick up, or would suggest.

“It follows an archbishop to his end,” I explain. “Not much happens before that, but it’s good.”

Thankfully, my words go unheard. A fellow traveler names a novel that strikes a faint chime in my fuzzy memory.

“Is that the blue one?” I say.

“The cover is blue, yes,” she replies.

“Oh,” I say, pulling from my luggage. “That's the one I have.”