My mother spent three days with us in London. Today I took her back to Reading. As soon as the train started slowing down on approach to our destination, I got up to fetch her hat, scarf, and coat. I did not want to rush her the last minute. After a few days away from familiar things, she was a bit frail. As she was putting on her scarf, she noticed that it clashed a bit with her blouse. Both were green, but of slightly different shades. Noticing that I was watching her, she looked up and smiled. She used to be a great beauty.

Addendum (August 27, 2000)

The last time I took my mother to London for a few days, which was last weekend, she noticed herself that she was a bit unsure of herself away from her routine. To make sure she would not overstretch herself, she became slower and slower and slower. Although she did not talk about it much, it was clear that she was surprised. And a bid apprehensive, I think. She knows that age is age, no matter how well everything is going at present. She also knows that it will take ever less of a jolt to throw her out of saddle, as it were. Becoming aware of her frailness only adds to her old fear of death, of dying. I will think twice before taking her out of Reading again.