As I reached for my book, my hand touched her hand. Ma—that’s what I called her. Her hand felt different. I consciously touched it to be sure it was hers. And it was and her skin didn’t feel the way I last remembered it. It felt loose and shriveled and cold. How time flies by! It seemed like she had grown old overnight and I have missed most part of it. I have deprived myself of her over a decade. I’ve made her invisible to me while I kept myself busy with the woes of my heart. I have stayed blind to her existence and it pains me now that I cannot go back and fill those years of hers with my time and presence. Can I?