It was the images that became developed into her mind when he began narrating to her the way in which he would end his so invaluable life.
The way he described his deadened fingers instantaneously slitting his supple, youthful neck with a small deadly weapon wasn’t the picture that first became present in her unsettled mind.
It was the image of him at the gentle age of five when he would close one of his eyes and hold out one of his arms and try to move an object within his sight using only his thumb and first finger.
It was the expression that was on his face at the tender age of 10 when his father first began to smack his dimpled cheeks and when he started realizing that human beings are not always what they seem.
It was the movement of his tears running down his face at the troubled age of 13 when he first used a kitchen utensil for something other than slicing carrots on a Monday night.
With all of the images compacting together within her mind a photograph became in her sight across the room against a dusty, crumbling bookshelf.
She closed her eyes and saw herself grasping a newborn boy with dimpled cheeks and soft supple skin.
All she could do was sit and stare at the broken hearted boy within her gaze and ask herself “Where did I go wrong and what type of mother have I become?”.