Night after night, Mom came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. After that, she’d 1 down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead. I don’t remember when it first started annoying me--- 2 that her hands pushed my hair, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. One night, I shouted at her, “Don’tdo that anymore. Your hands are too rough!” She didn’t say anything 3 . But never again did my mother conclude my day with that familiar 4 of her love. But time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother’s hands, and her good-night kisses. The years have elapsed. Mom is in her mid-70s, and those hands I 5 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 6 to calm the young girl’s stomach or soothe the boy’s scraped knee. Now, my own children are grown and gone. On special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with Mom. It was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, 7 a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow. Catching Mom’s hand in my hand, I 8 how sorry I was for that night. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about. She had forgotten-and 9 --long ago. That night, we 10 our relationship. I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands.