She was the consummate mother, even when extremely tired, she missed nothing. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. I don't have a phone in my room. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more.
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