ABSTRACT

Whatever else my mother was, to me she was my mother, and for the thirty-five years I had lived, she had been a caring mother, as she saw it. She knew little of what had happened to me during the years away from her; like so many sons— and daughters, I suppose—I sheltered her, as I saw it, from my innermost dreams and agonies; and I carefully sorted out what experiences I would share with her.