Int"Hey, can you get that?"

It's the edge in her voice that sends a rush of tears flooding to my eyes. Blinking them back, I obediently stand and go to answer the phone. I laugh softly as I realize that it is just one of my friends. She has realized the same thing. This wasn't the call.

Her voice, usually light, happy and compassionate, has taken a subtle sharpness to it. It might be such a slight difference that only her eldest daughter would notice. Sometimes it's just the little differences that hurt the most.

I don't know how she can handle it the way she is. How can she hide so well the pain so deep inside her? My eyes sting as I watch her talk with one of her sisters about what should be done. I know that if it were up to her, nothing would have to be done, because nothing would be wrong. Her dream world doesn't consist of money or power, only of contentment and bliss.

It makes me wonder how I will handle it. If I'll be as strong as she. If I'll be able to look into my daughter's eyes and tell her that really it is o.k. when I know that she knows it's not. How will I act when I am facing my mother's death as my mother is now? n