March 17, 2011
At night, I sometimes go to my mom’s bed – and although I’m now 33 years old – I hug her tightly. Her body is so tiny and fragile, and I shudder to think that she is getting older. What am I ever going to do without her? I know that one day this, too, will come. Meanwhile, she sits home alone watching TV and then retires to her bed, long before my dad returns home. I am helpless, embittered at my father, while I sit mired in the mess that my own boxes are now making in the house.