I wake in the morning. She's still asleep. She was out late last night watching over me. Her make-up smeared and still fully dressed, she lies on the couch covered only by her jacket. The sweet smell of her perfume still lingers in the room. I wonder, looking at this sight. Was it me who made her end up like this? Was it my fault? I wonder.

So I sit and observe her for ten minutes, or so. I look at her face, worn and tired from her hard work over the years. The lines of pain and anger stretch across her forehead. Though she is more than human on the outside, she must be an angel within.

All her years of suffering have made her what she is today - the angel who shelters me. When I was young, she watched me with love and compassion. Now, if I even see her once a day, she's busy with this and that. At night when she thinks I'm sleeping, I can feel her eyes watching me. She's looking at me the way I look at her now ... fast asleep. Does she see in my face what I see in hers? Does my childish appeal show through my unopened yes? I don't know.

Sometimes it seems that she doesn't see, but when she looks into my eyes, she knows the truth about me. She can see my pain, my love, my anger. When my day comes to watch the way she does, I hope I can be as good as she is. 1