“What is it, Mom?” I asked her gently.

“Do you want a different one?

I can bring you a fresh pillow, it’s no trouble.”

“No,” she said, still looking down, still running her thumb along the worn seam.

“No, not that.” And then, after a long pause: “Nothing, Mabel.

Not yet.”

Not yet. I did not understand what she meant, and I did not press her, because she had earned the right to her own silences and I had learned long ago not to go digging in them.

I only tucked the old pillow back behind her, and smoothed the blanket, and went to warm her some broth.