The room was filled with a pale beer tinge from the lamp. I heard a murmur, looked at mother, almost rolled in her sheet. 

Her face covered, only hair left out on the pillow and a despondent white rosary, hanging from the side. 

It has been overused. Once all it’s beads had fallen out, never knew something like that could be reassembled so finely. 

She often goes to bed while praying and other times she kind of does it because enunciating those verses for merely few minutes would sedate her. 

As she snored at the challenge that this day was I read with my hand in air, moving it impatiently to find more light. 

With a twitch in the neck I realized it was over, after almost having read for an hour. 

And all this while I had been holding it like a delicate art work, my hand being the easel.