night after night, Mom came to my bed and say good night, even long after my childhood years. As part of her nightly routine, she would lean down, push my long hair out of the way, and then kiss my forehead.

I can't rememgber when it first strated annoying me:her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me manyway, for they felt rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I lashed out at her, "Stop doing that-your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply, and never did she end my day with that special expression of love again. That night, I found myself lying awake long after she left my room. Regrettably, I never told her I was sorry.

Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts would often return to that night. I missed my mother's hands and her goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Sometimes, the memory of that unspeakable night seemed very close and sometimes far away. It was always there-in the back of my mind.

Years have passed. I am no longer a young girl, and Mom is in her mid-seventies. Those hands I once thought to be rough are still taking care of me and my family. Over the years, those hands have reached into a medicine cabinet for the remedy that would calm a young girl's upset stomach or soothe a boy's painful knee. The very same hands have also cooked the best fried chicken in the world, gotten stains out of my jeans, and dished out ice cream on a hot summer day.

Now my own children are all grown and gone, and Mom no longer has Dad. On special days, I find my self drawn to her house to spend the night with her. On the eve of one Thanksgiving, as I was about to fall asleep in my old bedroom, a rough but loving hand hesitantly stole across my face and brushed the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my eyebrow.

For the thousandth time, I recalled the night when my young voice ungratefully complained, "Stop doing that:your hands are too rough!" Then I caught Mom's hand in mine involuntarily. With the deepest regret, I told her how sorry I had felt about that night all those years. To my surprise, Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgiven-and forgotten-long ago.