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Night after night, my mother came to my bed, even long after my childhood years．She would 1 down and push my long hair out of the way, and then kiss my forehead．
I don't remember when it first started 2 me－h(huán)er hands pushing my hair that way, for they felt work－worn and rough 3 my young skin．Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don't do that any more－your hands are too rough!” she made no 4 and left quietly．
But never again did my mother do it with that familiar expression of her 5 ．
With the passing years, my 6 returned to that night time after time．By then I 7 my mother's hands and her goodnight kiss．Sometimes the incident seemed very 8 , sometimes far away, but always it was 9 in the back of my mind．
The years have passed, and I'm not a little girl any more．Mom is in her seventies, and those hands I once 10 to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family．
Now, Mom no longer has Dad and lives 11 ．One night on Thanksgiving Eve, I found myself 12 to her house to spend the night with her．As I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to 13 the hair from my forehead．Then a 14 , ever so gently, touched my forehead．I burst into tears．
In my memory, thousands of times, I 15 the night my young voice complained．Catching Mom's hand in hand, I told her how 16 I was for that night．I thought she'd remember 17 I did．But Mom didn't know what I was talking about．She had already forgotten and 18 long ago．
That night, I fell asleep with a new 19 for my gentle mother and her caring hands．And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was 20 to be found．
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