The dim light from our small laundry room lamp casts its glow across my mother's face and sends shadows skittering across the room.
As I glance up at her from where I am sitting, the thought that has been throbbing through my heart all day rises once again to my thoughts.
Elizabeth is engrossed in a new book; her curly head bent low to catch the dark stamp of words printed across the soft flutter of pages; her hair, soft and golden and fine, is smooth against her cheek.
I love to watch her face as she reads, her lips moving silently to the rythm of the neatly woven story; her face contorting frequently into a vast mix of facial movements--first a frown of worry, then a twist of excitement, and last a gleeful bounce and joyful outloud chuckle as the story turns to a happier note.
Sarah is in the kitchen, enveloped in the nut brown sweater I bought for her several years ago. The whir of the beater winds its way down the hall to my ears, teasing me with thoughts of the delightful something she is making in the kitchen.