As I saw it, her life of isolation was brought on by the necessity of keeping the three of us from ending up living in the Pontiac. Her bony fingers were raw and pink, and her eyes extinguished of any flicker of exuberance that once lit them. I never thought about my mother’s toil, a mundane, exhausting routine every day, with never a pause in its monotony and drudgery. I never thought of what it took to rise in the still-dark night while I luxuriated in sleep, under my warm covers. I never once thought about the will it took for her to resist the sleep her body and mind and soul must have
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