The day before I left, I remembered a story her mother told me. She said: ‘Andrea, when Heather was a little girl, she couldn’t fall asleep without tying a string around her finger that stretched to mine in the other room. All night long she’d give that string the tiniest tug, to make sure I was still there, and I’d tug back. That was love. That was love. As easy as that.’
Sometimes.
Sometimes.
No comments:
Post a Comment