Slowly, purposefully, my mother unbuttons her blouse.It is blue with small white flowers, and the tail istucked firmly into the elastic waistband of her salmon-pinkpants. Beginning at the top and moving down, she workscarefully at each of the small plastic buttons. "Mother," I plead with her, "you don't need to do that."She smiles at me and continues unfastening buttons.Her padded cotton and elastic bra begins to appear. Herbreasts swell pallidly above it.The room is not well lit. The curtains are drawn, as theyalways are, against the sun. But I can see more of mymother than I wish to. My father, sitting here with me, saysnothing. My wife, Gina, and two other women in the roomalso sit silently as my mother undresses herself.I smell her perfume as she works at her blouse, her per-fume and the lotion she lathers herself with every morning.I see the wrinkles beneath her arms, the flaps of skin at theelbows. She pulls off the blouse and stands before us withit in her right hand
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