"Excuse me," said a wiry man, his arms full of parcels in festive prints.
"Oh, of course." replied a, slightly, weathered woman. Her arms were also laden with packages to be sent off. Her snow-white hair hung limply and her gray eyes held no joy. She was tired. Tired of the holidays, tired of the loneliness, just tired. She shuffled a little so that the younger man could reach a mailing sticker. He looked a little like her son, Brian.
The last time she had seen him was twenty years before. Or maybe twenty-five now, she couldn't quite remember. She studied the man a little, pretending to be studying the mailing dates so her boxes would arrive by Christmas. He was tall and thin. A Roman nose holding up John Lennon glasses. His sandy hair was streaked with gray and white. His tourmaline eyes were sad, but they still held a flicker of hope.
"Brian?" she asked, looking at him with open intensity.
"Yes?" he replied. If he recognized her, he didn't show it. He had a patient smile plastered across his face.
"Brian, its me. Your mother; Angela. Do you not recognize me?" She felt a tremor of foreboding. It was him.
"I'm sorry. My mother died when I was twenty." He went back to his packages and she left before she began to cry. He watched her leave before he whispered, "Hi, Mom."
"Oh, of course." replied a, slightly, weathered woman. Her arms were also laden with packages to be sent off. Her snow-white hair hung limply and her gray eyes held no joy. She was tired. Tired of the holidays, tired of the loneliness, just tired. She shuffled a little so that the younger man could reach a mailing sticker. He looked a little like her son, Brian.
The last time she had seen him was twenty years before. Or maybe twenty-five now, she couldn't quite remember. She studied the man a little, pretending to be studying the mailing dates so her boxes would arrive by Christmas. He was tall and thin. A Roman nose holding up John Lennon glasses. His sandy hair was streaked with gray and white. His tourmaline eyes were sad, but they still held a flicker of hope.
"Brian?" she asked, looking at him with open intensity.
"Yes?" he replied. If he recognized her, he didn't show it. He had a patient smile plastered across his face.
"Brian, its me. Your mother; Angela. Do you not recognize me?" She felt a tremor of foreboding. It was him.
"I'm sorry. My mother died when I was twenty." He went back to his packages and she left before she began to cry. He watched her leave before he whispered, "Hi, Mom."
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