完形填空

　　Night after night, my mother came to my bed, even long after my childhood years．She would 　　1　　 down and push my long hair out of the way, and then kiss my forehead．

　　I don't remember when it first started 　　2　　 me－her hands pushing my hair that way, for they felt work-worn and rough 　　3　　 my young skin．Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don't do that any more－your hands are too rough!” she made no 　　4　　 and left quietly．But never again did my mother do it with that familiar expression of her 　　5　　．

　　With the passing years, my 　　6　　 returned to that night time after time．By then I 　　7　　 my mother's hands and her goodnight kiss．Sometimes the incident seemed very 　　8　　, sometimes far away, but always it was 　　9　　 in the back of my mind．

　　The years have passed, and I'm not a little girl any more．Mom is in her seventies, and those hands I once 　　10　　 to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family．

　　Now, Mom no longer has Dad and lives 　　11　　．One night on Thanksgiving Eve, I found myself 　　12　　 to her house to spend the night with her．As I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to 　　13　　 the hair from my forehead．Then a 　　14　　, ever so gently, touched my forehead．I burst into tears．

　　In my memory, thousands of times, I 　　15　　 the night my young voice complained．Catching Mom's hand in hand, I told her how 　　16　　 I was for that night．I thought she'd remember, 　　17　　 I did．But Mom didn't know what I was talking about．She had already forgotten and 　　18　　 long ago．

　　That night, I fell asleep with a new 　　19　　 for my gentle mother and her caring hands．And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was 　　20　　 to be found．

完形填空

　　Night after night, my mother came to my bed, even long after my childhood years．She would 　　1　　 down and push my long hair out of the way, and then kiss my forehead．

　　I don't remember when it first started 　　2　　 me－her hands pushing my hair that way, for they felt work－worn and rough 　　3　　 my young skin．Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, “Don't do that any more－your hands are too rough!” she made no 　　4　　 and left quietly．

　　But never again did my mother do it with that familiar expression of her 　　5　　．

　　With the passing years, my 　　6　　 returned to that night time after time．By then I 　　7　　 my mother's hands and her goodnight kiss．Sometimes the incident seemed very 　　8　　, sometimes far away, but always it was 　　9　　 in the back of my mind．

　　The years have passed, and I'm not a little girl any more．Mom is in her seventies, and those hands I once 　　10　　 to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family．

　　Now, Mom no longer has Dad and lives 　　11　　．One night on Thanksgiving Eve, I found myself 　　12　　 to her house to spend the night with her．As I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to 　　13　　 the hair from my forehead．Then a 　　14　　, ever so gently, touched my forehead．I burst into tears．

　　In my memory, thousands of times, I 　　15　　 the night my young voice complained．Catching Mom's hand in hand, I told her how 　　16　　 I was for that night．I thought she'd remember 　　17　　 I did．But Mom didn't know what I was talking about．She had already forgotten and 　　18　　 long ago．

　　That night, I fell asleep with a new 　　19　　 for my gentle mother and her caring hands．And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was 　　20　　 to be found．