I don't remember how many times Mother ever came to my room and tucked me in. I only1she did that night after night.
Every time she2on my bed and pushed my long hair out of the way, then kissed my forehead. Mother's rough3did make me feel uncomfortable. Finally, one4, I shouted out at her, "Don't do that anymore—your hands are too rough, Mommy!" She didn't5anything in reply. But never again did my mother start my sleep with that kind of6love.
With the passing7, I'm not a little girl anymore. I still remember that night,8I shouted at my mother like that. Mom is in her seventies, and she is still doing things for me and my family with her rough hands.
One night while Mom was washing dishes, I came to her. Catching her hand in hand, I told her how9I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't10what I was talking about. She forgot what I shouted to her—long ago.
