Night after night, as was often the case, she'd lean down and push my long hair out of the __1__, then kiss my forehead. I don't remember when it first started __2__ me.But it did.Finally one night, I shouted out at her, " Don't do that any more-your hands are too __3__!" She didn't say anything in reply.But never again did my mother __4__ my day with that familiar __5__ of her love. With the years passing, my thoughts __6__ to that night, when I missed my mother's hands, missed her goodnight __7__ on my forehead.Sometimes the incident seemed very __8__, while sometimes far away.But always it was hidden in the back of my __9__.Now Mom is in her seventies, and those hands that I __10__ thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my __11__.And now my own children are grown and gone.One thanksgiving Eve, __12__I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a __13__ hand hesitantly run across my face to __14__ the hair from my forehead.Then a kiss, ever so __15__, touched my brow. In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night and my young voice __16__."Don't do that any more-your hands are too rough!" __17__, I caught Mom's hand in hand, saying how __18__ I was for that night.I thought she'd remember, as I did.But Mom didn't know __19__ I was talking about.She had forgotten, and forgiven long ago. That night, I fell asleep with a new __20__for my gentle mother and her caring hands.And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found. |