Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she’d lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.
I don’t remember when it first started annoying me – her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I lashed out at her: “Don’t do that anymore – your hands are too rough!” She didn’t say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love. Lying awake long afterward, my words haunted me. But pride stifled my conscience, and I didn’t tell her I was sorry.
Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother’s hands, missed her goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, hauntingly, in the back of my mind.
Well, the years have passed, and I’m not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She’s been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl’s stomach or soothe a boy’s scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world… gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could… and still insists on dishing out ice cream at any hour of the day or night.
Through the years, my mother’s hands have put in countless hours of toil, and most of hers were before perma-pressed fabrics and automatic washers!
Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was that late one Thanksgiving Eve, as I drifted into sleep in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly stole across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.
In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my surly young voice complained: “Don’t do that anymore – your hands are too rough!” I reacted involuntarily. Catching Mom’s hand in mine, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she’d remember, as I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about. She had forgotten – and forgiven – long ago.
That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.

By Christina Coruth

A CD player headset drowned out the background noise as I worked in the living room at my computer. My fingers rushed over the keys as fast as my mediocre typing skills would allow, and my unblinking eyes stared at the monitor. Working in the living room of a small house that is home to three adults and two young children has forced me to develop a new level in my ability to concentrate. I was busy, very busy with my work. I had achieved that state of concentration that allowed me to block out just about anything, a tornado vacuuming up the room around me, if need be.
Then it happened. A tiny rift opened in my concentration as my eye caught a glimpse of an object flying upward through the air. I pulled my mind back to my work. I didn’t even look to see what the object was, or what became of it as I sealed the rift. No sooner had I resumed my work, than laughter opened another rift in my concentration. Now I was getting annoyed. My seven-year-old grandson, Zach, was sitting across the room on the couch. His smile faded as I gave him my most stern, “Hush, I’m working” look.
Although I couldn’t hear him, I could see that he said, “Sorry, Nana.”
Success – another rift sealed and concentration restored. Sometimes children don’t understand that there is a time for play and a time for work. This time is work time and I must get back to it. Clickedy, clickedy over the keys my fingers raced.
Another object whizzed past my peripheral vision, and the music wafting through my headset was no match for Zach’s hearty laughter. Now I was really annoyed. Zach was too busy to see my sternest “Hush, I’m working” look. I followed his gaze to the ceiling as he launched another object, a hair scrunchy. With a quick slingshot motion, the hair scrunchy was airborne – whiz, bump, stuck to the popcorn ceiling. Some people like popcorn ceilings. To me, they look as if someone forgot to smooth out the Spackle. I never had any use for a bump-filled ceiling. Zach, on the other hand, had found a use for the ceiling, which now was adorned with a half a dozen hair scrunchies.
Red, purple and green circles clung to the ceiling, some flat up against it and some hanging down.
I lightened up my stern look a bit. “That’s very funny but you have to stop now. Scrunchies don’t belong on the ceiling.”
“But why not? It’s fun! I won’t break anything.”
I was about to tell him to go get the broom so that I could remove the scrunchies, when his words sunk into my head and reminded me of a time when I would have said, “why not?”also. When had I gotten so serious and so busy that I couldn’t revel in the joy of a moment? What happened to the woman who would send her young children’s friends into fits of giggles upon meeting them for the first time by asking them what they did for work and if they were married and had any children? What happened to the woman who laughed herself silly when her children and husband got into a snowball fight in the kitchen with cookie dough? When did I become so rigid? When did I forget, “Why not?”
Why not indeed! I looked at Zach and couldn’t help but smile.
“Can you show me how to do that?”
His face lit up as he showed me how to launch a scrunchy. His laughter filled the air and his eyes sparkled. The ceiling never looked so colorful and happy with all those red, green, purple and yellow circles, some laying flat and some hanging down. I have to admit, Zach was better at it than I. Most of his attempts hit their mark. Most of mine ended up on the floor.
The following morning, I sat at the computer, ready to begin my work. I looked at the scrunchies still clinging to the ceiling and smiled. I certainly had enjoyed our time putting them up there. I decided I would take them down later. That is, until the ceiling lost its grip on one, and it fell, bounced off my shoulder, and onto the floor. Zach’s smiling face flashed in my mind’s eye. I smiled again. I felt like that woman of years ago who laughed at the cookie dough fight. I picked up the scrunchy and plopped it into my pocket.
When Zach came home from school that day, I was ready. He had given me a precious gift, now it was time to show him that I appreciated it.
“Zach, I’ve been waiting all day for you. Look what I found on the floor. It’s no wonder I can’t find these scrunchies when I need them. Please put this away.” I handed him the scrunchy and he headed toward the door.
“Zach,” I called out to him, “where are you going?”
He turned to me, “I’m going to put the scrunchy away, Nana.”
“Please put it where I can find it.” I shifted my gaze from his sweet little face to the ceiling. A broad smile spread across his face as he realized what I was asking him to do. Whizzzzzz, bump – up it went. It was perfect!
If you come to my house, beware of falling scrunchies. You may wonder why I keep my scrunchies on the ceiling. Zach knows the answer to that question, and now, so do I – “Why not?”

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning and company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open, with the grace of an adult, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
that you really are strong, and you really do have worth.
And you learn and you learn…
with every good-bye you learn…

God, please do not let me miss those moments that I could have spent with my child. Let me carry him more often and feel his tiny body gently wrapped in my loving arms. For someday I will not have the strength to pick him up anymore.

Let me hold him close to smell his freshly washed hair and breathe in that wonderful baby scent that covers his delicate skin, for surely he will not smell this deliciously sweet for very long.

Let me enjoy changing his diapers for this gives me the chance to play with his miniature toes, tickle his tummy and make him feel comfortable. Someday he will ask me to leave and shut the door behind me claiming he can manage by himself.

Let me take more walks with him in his stroller while I can look down at his little face that is staring in wonder at this new world all around him. Let me do this often, for soon he will be able to walk on his own and leave the safety of his carriage.

Let me stand beside his crib at night for longer than a moment to watch him surrender to his peaceful slumber. These nights spent in a crib will be replaced soon enough by a much less cozy place for dreams.

Let me make him laugh every day. For I am sure the precious sounds of his first giggles are apt to change with time.

Let me delight in each and every milestone he reaches. Before I know it walking, drinking from a cup and other small miracles he has learned will seem ordinary.

Let me tell him how much I love him. Since there are bound to be times when he will not want to sit still to hear this.

Let me continue to listen attentively to him even after he has mastered the art of talking. Since people tend to listen less closely to a child once language becomes fluent.

Let me make time for peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake and other baby games. There will come a day when he will no longer want to participate in such childish antics.

Let me learn to enjoy the sound of him calling me “Mommy” even if it is yelled through the dripping of tears. For one day I will no longer be “Mommy” to him, but rather just “Mom.”

Let me be the world to him right now because as every mother sadly comes to realize, their babies soon discover the world outside of their mother’s arms.

Let me do these things and so much more, despite being busy, tired or overwhelmed because I would hate to look back and harbor regrets of times gone by that were lost to less important things than my son.

Yes, dear Lord, I want my son to grow up to be a strong, loving and intelligent man, but please Lord do not let this happen overnight because someday memories will be all I have.