Hello

I see her walking up the steps of the school. She can't be more than 32 years old, but her hair is graying and her eyes hold more knowledge of emotions than primordial feelers. There is a perpetual depth in her gaze, which looks right through everything and anything. 

She opens the office doors and the vague scent of yellow roses delineate her path into the chair beside me. The woman is quiet, contemplating the neat assortment of fountain pens displayed on the peach colored counter. I look at them too, first with my head tilted to one side and then the other, but whatever enigmas she envisions in their monotonous surfaces escapes my careful eyes.

She doesn't say anything to me nor I to her, we both just stare at nothing and think of everything. But I know in her head there are many things she wants to say. I can see it in the way she occasionally turns to me and looks as if she will acknowledge that I am there. But she doesn't and that is fine with me. 

I sometimes feel like I know what to say and will turn to her to say it, but the words are never there. 

So it amazes me when the words, by some unknown audacity, climb out of my throat and address this stranger. 

"Hello mom."