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Show 72 Twenty-three Annis has been asleep since she came back from her walk, though the activities of the family continue uninterrupted; they understand that she is still recovering from her journey, from the excitement, from the sudden prospect of the move. Evan peeks in at her from the bedroom door; she lies heavily on her side, her shoes kicked off, her knees drawn slightly up; there is a blanket barely covering her legs. He tiptoes in, entranced by the silence of her sleeping. He pulls the blanket gently up around her sleeping shoulders, adjusts the lamp so that it does not shine in her eyes. He stands and looks at her for several moments, visualizing the mother who had taught him how to tie his shoes, who had scolded him for leaving his schoolbooks on the piano, smiled at his stories in the school newspaper, who had attended nearly every one of the recitals he had given, and not remarked on the off-pitch notes. It is the same face still, he sees, with the same deep-set eyes, eyes which would be dark and somehow luminous if she were awake; the same slightly olive skin, wide cheekbones, which have always given her an air of mysteriousness, remoteness, reserve. But the face is older now, much older, and as he sits himself in the chair beside the bed he studies his mother's sleeping face, the lines which group around the corners of the eyes, at the mouth, the soft pale cast of fine-grown hair, the way in which the cheeks puff ever so slightly below the chin. It is an old face, growing more old, but not unlovely: dear mother, he thinks, dear, dear mother. He leans over in the chair to kiss her, ever so softly. He is somewhat surprised |
