Part Three.

After escaping the cold, I made my way up our carefully waxed and polished staircase, down the pastel painted floral décor hallway, and into my room; cream walls connected by a perfectly bleach white carpet. It was always refreshing to see the painting of the famous “Le Jardin Giverny” hanging in between the two posts that almost barely touched my ceiling. There was always something about Claude Monet’s delicate nature that calmed me down, regardless of it I needed the calming or not.

I heard my mother downstairs in the kitchen, shuffling through the drawers and dicing tonight’s vegetables in every direction, making smaller pieces than necessary. I could picture the occasional tear falling from one of her eyes as she leaned over a stack of carefully sliced onions strategically placed on the cutting board. When I was younger, watching my mother prepare dinner was the most exciting part of the day. I was intrigued by they way her delicate hands gripped the steel knife, the way she seemed to be floating from one drawer to the next, but it was something about the onions that captivated me most of all. It was then, as my mother peeled and chopped what was before her, that her eyes began to water. It was then, and only then, that I could capture an ounce of emotion from my mother. Then, and only then, that she allowed herself to feel.

Everything seemed to be going the way it usually did, I sat on my floor staring out at the pages in front of me with heavy eyes waiting to be called for dinner.

The integral is the limit for an infinite number of rectangles… If x equals to… the continuous… His eyes, those eyes-

“Samantha, it’s time for dinner.”

Damn.