Nightafternight,shecametotuckmein,evenlongaftermychildhoodyears.Followingherlongstandingcustom,she'dleandownandpushmylonghairoutoftheway,thenkissmyforehead.Idon'trememberwhenitfirststartedannoyingme—herhandspushingmyhairthatway.Butitdidannoyme,fortheyfeltwork-wornandroughagainstmyyoungskin.Finally,onenight,Ishoutedoutather,"Don'tdothatanymore—yourhandsaretoorough!"Shedidn'tsayanythinginreply.Butneveragaindidmymothercloseoutmydaywiththatfamiliarexpressionofherlove.Timeaftertime,withthepassingyears,mythoughtsreturnedtothatnight.BythenImissedmymother'shands,missedhergoodnightkissonmyforehead.Sometimestheincidentseemedveryclose,sometimesfaraway.Butalwaysitlurked,inthebackofmymind.Well,theyearshavepassed,andI'mnotalittlegirlanymore.Momisinhermid-seventies,andthosehandsIoncethoughttobesorougharestilldoingthingsformeandmyfamily.She'sbeenourdoctor,reachingintoamedicinecabinetfortheremedytocalmayounggirl'sstomachorsoothetheboy'sscrapedknee.Shecooksthebestfriedchickenintheworld...getsstainsoutofbluejeanslikeInevercould...Now,myownchildrenaregrownandgone.MomnolongerhasDad,andonspecialoccasions,Ifindmyselfdrawnnextdoortospendthenightwithher.SoitwaslateonThanksgivingEve,asIsleptinthebedroomofmyyouth,afamiliarhandhesitantlyrunacrossmyfacetobrushthehairfrommyforehead.Thenakiss,eversogently,touchedmybrow.Inmymemory,forthethousandthtime,Irecalledthenightmyyoungvoicecomplained,"Don'tdothatanymore—yourhandsaretoorough!"CatchingMom'shandinhand,IblurtedouthowsorryIwasforthatnight.Ithoughtshe'dremember,asIdid.ButMomdidn'tknowwhatIwastalkingabout.Shehadforgotten—andforgiven—longago.