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said. "I'm fine," she insisted and walked away quickly. Finally, one night I came downstairs and found
her sitting in the living room, gazing out the window.
She was in the rocker and she was moving herself
back and forth gently. I could see she was so deep in
thought, she didn't even realize I had entered the
room. I sat across from her and waited. Her eyes
moved very slowly until she saw me and then they
widened and brightened.
"How long have you been there?" she asked. "Just a few seconds," I said.
"I didn't hear you come in." She sighed. "Looks
like it might rain again. I think we're getting a leak in
the roof over the pantry. I'll have someone check it
tomorrow."
"Mother, there was a question that kept coming
up in my group therapy."
"What question?" she fired at me.
"A question I have had in my own mind for a
while now. I don't want you to get angry at me for
asking it, but it's important to me."
"I hate questions," she muttered. "Ever since
what happened happened, that's all the world's been
full of for us, questions."
"People have to have answers, Mother. I need
answers just like anyone."
"Answers can make for unnecessary trouble.
Sometimes it's best not to ask questions," she said. "No, Mother," I pursued. "It's never better to
bury your head in the sand."
"Is that what that doctor taught you?" "No. I taught it to myself. If I had asked some
questions and if you had . ."
"All right," she said. "All right. Let's get this
