WHILE MY MOTHER SLEEPS
We were watching T. V. one night . . . Mom, Dad and myself. The story was without interest, but it served at least to gather us together in the warmth of our living room. Quietly we enjoyed one another’s presence, not bothering really to say much, but just being happy together. Each was lost in his or her own thoughts, and the long day’s weariness began to take hold. On impulse, I looked towards my father and noticed him gazing lovingly at my mother. Her head was bowed in sleep and her glasses rested precariously on the tip of her nose. The years, though kind to her, still had left their mark, and her fresh beauty that I marveled at when I was a boy, now lingered on, more as a loving memory, than a living reality. She seemed so fragile to me, more of heaven than of earth, more of spirit than of substance. Dad never took his…
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