My mother came to my bed, night after night, 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-her 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 .