Almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my 

youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. 

Now my hands have grown into those of my mother's. Hands that have cooked uneaten 

meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears 

off her face.  I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is

locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same

kiss to Anna.  Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.

Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits.  Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same

question too many times?  I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter.  “Where is Rick?” my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. And in that

instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers.  “He’ll be here,” I answer with a smile. 

46. What’s wrong with the writer’s mother?

A. She is very old.      B. She suffers forgetfulness.

C. She is absent-minded.    D. She is eager to see Rick.

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