"You wash your face, but never let on to your neck," I would tell him
when he was a wee laddie.
He had a habit then of parting and brushing about an inch of his
hair, leaving the rest all topsy-turvy. My recollection of that
boyhood habit served me as a defense in later years when he would
call my attention to my own disordered hair.
I linger long, and I linger lovingly over these small details,
because they are part of my daily thoughts. Every day some little
incident comes up to remind me of my boy. A battered old hamper, in
which I carry my different character make-ups, stands in my dressing
room. It was John's favorite seat. Every time I look at it I have a
vision of a tiny wide-eyed boy perched on the lid, watching me make
ready for the stage. A lump rises, unbidden, in my throat.
In all his life, I never had to admonish my son once. Not once. He
was the most considerate lad I have ever known. He was always
thinking of others. He was always doing for others.
It was with such thoughts as these that John's mother and I filled in
the time between his letters. They came as if by a schedule. We knew
what post should bring one. And once or twice a letter was a post
late and our hearts were in our throats with fear. And then came a
day when there should have been a letter, and none came. The whole
day passed. I tried to comfort John's mother! I tried to believe
myself that it was no more than a mischance of the post.
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