Raised Beds Gardening.

Posts Tagged ‘sleep’

The new Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) crib standards have been published. The new standards were officially recorded in the Federal Register on December 28, 2010. Consumers must replace all noncompliant cribs by December 28, 2012. This new CPSC standards stipulate an outright ban of all drop side cribs as well as incorporating other new, mandatory standards for non-drop side (fixed side) cribs (see below). As long as you check your cribs and ascertain that they are working properly, you may continue to use them until December 28, 2012. The new standards include: • The elimination of traditional “drop side” mechanisms. • Improvement to structural integrity of crib slats with a corresponding new test to pass. • Increased severity vertical mattress impact test to pass. • Horizontal cyclic test to pass. • Elimination of wood screws from key structural elements. • Reduction of toehold exposure. • Marking and labeling improvements. • Testing by a third party conformity assessment body who is CPSC accredited. According to CPSC, no permanent retrofit kit or other “fix” will address all seven of the points covered under the new standards. When purchasing cribs, you should request a certificate of compliance. The certificate of compliance must state that the crib meets the new standards set out in the Code of Federal Regulations (CFR) – either 16 CFR 1219 (for a full size crib) or 16 CFR 1220 (for a compact-size crib). Reynolds offers the solutions you need to get ready …

I keep getting these little tiny red bumps at night. They are in random places, usually wherever there is exposed skin. Sometimes a leg, usually my belly if I don’t tuck my shirt into my pants before sleeping. If I wear loose shorts to bed, they will appear under my clothing. One night, I wore socks, and tucked my pants into my socks, and my shirt into my pants so nothing was exposed except my hands–I now have 2 bites on my neck. They start out tiny, with no visible bite mark, and then grow to about the size of a quarter with the edges very slightly raised. This happens over over a few weeks time, until they eventually disappear. They get extremely dry and flaky and itch constantly the bigger they get.

I seem to only get them at night, and the problem has been getting worse over the course of a few months. I now have about 15 bites that have just started out, and will grow over the next month. My husband and daughter do not get them, I have bug bombed the room I sleep in and washed all bedclothing in the house. I sleep in my own bed, and it seems the couple times my daughter has slept with me, she too gets bitten, but her bites go away without growing larger.

Does anyone know what is going on and how I can get rid of them? It used to happen infrequently, but now I have over 20 bites on my body! HELP!

Most suspensful joke ever.
I was utterly shocked!

A man was driving in the middle of nowhere down a secluded country road far from any cities. He got a flat tire, and got out to walk for help. After walking for some time, he came to a small stone monastery. He knocked on the door and roused the monks. "I’ve got a flat tire. Can I use your phone?" He asked.

The monks said they were sorry, but they did not have a phone. "If you stay tonight, you can get a ride on our wagon into town tomorrow," they said. So the man stayed the night, and they put him in a small room in the monastery.

In the middle of the night, the man was awakened suddenly by a noise. Not just any noise, but the loudest, most wonderful, most terrifying, most hair-raising noise ever.

He sat there, his heart beating for a few minutes, and he heard it again!Getting out of bed, he went running in the direction of the noise. It came again, making the hair on the back of his neck rise and his skin crawl. Finally, he came to a large door where the head monk was standing. The door was at least 15 feet tall, and made of solid-looking wood and metal. It had chains and bars and locks and a deadbolt on it, and was the most formidable door the man had ever seen.

"What was that sound?" he asked. "What made it? Is it behind that door?"

The head monk shook his head. "I’m sorry," he said. "I can’t tell you; you’re not a monk."

As the man turned away, he heard the noise again. "You have to tell me what it is," he begged.

"I’m sorry, I can’t tell you, you’re not a monk," said the monk.

The man tried to sleep, but couldn’t get the noise out of his head. In the morning, as he was getting ready to leave, he heard the sound again. It made his ears ring and his mind whirl.

"Please tell me what made that sound," he said.

But the monks wouldn’t. "I’m sorry, you’re not a monk" was all they said.

The man left, and eventually got his car fixed and went back to his life. But he couldn’t get the sound out of his mind. After a few months, he got in his car and drove and drove until he found the monastery again. He got out of his car and found the head monk.

"I can’t forget that sound from that night I was here. Please, please please tell me what made that sound."

The head monk just shook his head. "I can’t tell you; you’re not a monk," he said.

"Then tell me how I can become a monk," the man said.

The head monk said "It’s very difficult. Are you sure you want to do this?"

The man said "I’ve got to. I have to know what made that sound."

The head monk said, "To join us, you have to perform several tasks. Your first task is to count all of the stars visible in the sky."

The man thought about how hard that would be, but he had to know what made that sound. He sat up every night for a year, counting the stars over and over until he was sure how many stars were visible in the sky.

He went to the head monk and told him, and the monk nodded. "Very good. Your next task is to count all of the grains of sand on the beaches around the world."

The man knew this would be even harder, but he could not get the noise out of his head. He had to know what, what kind of animal, could make that terrible horrible mind-bending sound. So he left on his journeys. He crawled the length and breadth of every beach in the world, counting the grains of sand, and he returned to the monastery years later.

The head monk heard his answer and nodded. "Excellent. You are almost done. Your final task is to climb to the peak of the highest mountain in the world, and see yourself in relation to the rest of creation."

And the man knew this would be hard, but he outfitted himself, and he went to the highest mountain in the world, and he climbed to the top, and returned months later, older and wiser and more tired than years before when he had first heard the noise, the noise that would not leave his mind and that echoed in his every waking thought.

He returned, and the head monk saw that he was wiser, and said "At last, you are a monk. Come with me."

And they walked through the monastery, its twisting and turning halls, and as they went the man heard the noise again, over and over, and he was no longer sure if it was the noise or merely his memory of it.

And finally, finally, he stood in front of the door and the head monk opened it up, and the man saw what had made the noise.

What was the noise?

…………………………..

…………………………..

……………………….

I cant tell you, you are not a monk.

Let me start be saying that I am happily married with one child (which is the only child that either my self or my wife has). I have never cheated on my wife and I waited until I was married before I made the choice to bring another life into this world. I understand the importance and value of a child being raised with daily access to two loving parents.

I also believe that a male who does not take care of his home by being there for his child and by helping the mother of his child to raise the child which he helped to create, is the worse kind of scum.

But many men are not as mature and/or responsible as I am. That’s not to brag, it’s just the way it is.

That being the case, I can not understand why women are not EXTREMELY selective when it comes to having sex and children with men.

I know that often times men will run game on women and tell them anything to get in their pants, but women are aware of this also. Yet they allow no good men impregnate them.

I would think that with all of the rigors of bearing a child, birthing a child and raising a child; women would require alot more then a little game from of a man before they decided to sleep with or have a baby by him.

Women have the power to require men to prove themselves worthy prior to allowing them into their garden. It seems to me that a women would want to make sure that a man:
A)is serious about being with her (this can be verified by NOT having sex so quickly )
B)is in a stable position mentally and financially to be a father (this can be checked by spending some time to get to really know a man before getting bed with him)

The final thing is to be real with yourself. Often times women will know that a man is no good, or at least doesn’t posses the character traits to be a good father; yet they will still give it up to him a get pregnant (often time they will get pregnant by a man with several kids by several other women, which he is not taking car of).

What’s with this?

Let me start be saying that I am happily married with one child (which is the only child that either my self or my wife has). I have never cheated on my wife and I waited until I was married before I made the choice to bring another life into this world. I understand the importance and value of a child being raised with daily access to two loving parents.

I also believe that a male who does not take care of his home by being there for his child and by helping the mother of his child to raise the child which he helped to create, is the worse kind of scum.

But many men are not as mature and/or responsible as I am. That’s not to brag, it’s just the way it is.

That being the case, I can not understand why women are not EXTREMELY selective when it comes to having sex and children with men.

I know that often times men will run game on women and tell them anything to get in their pants, but women are aware of this also. Yet they allow no good men impregnate them.

I would think that with all of the rigors of bearing a child, birthing a child and raising a child; women would require a lot more then a little game from of a man before they decided to sleep with or have a baby by him.

Women have the power to require men to prove themselves worthy prior to allowing them into their garden. It seems to me that a women would want to make sure that a man:
A)is serious about being with her (this can be verified by NOT having sex so quickly )
B)is in a stable position mentally and financially to be a father (this can be checked by spending some time to get to really know a man before getting bed with him)

The final thing is to be real with yourself. Often times women will know that a man is no good, or at least doesn’t posses the character traits to be a good father; yet they will still give it up to him and get pregnant (often time they will get pregnant by a man with several kids by several other women, which he is not taking care of).

Females are among the most intelligent beings ever to walk the earth.

So what’s with this?

P.S.

Every man that poses a tough and perhaps uncomfortable question is not sexist.
If there is something sexist about this question please point out specific instances instead of making generalizations.

The question posed here is not a rant, but in fact is a well laid out and thorough question intended to provoke some thought with regards to the power which women posses, but is often do not take advantage of.

I treat my wife like the queen that I believe she is. I work full time go to school, cook, clean and take care of our son, and she does the same (except for going to school because she already has a degree in women’s studies).

Our relationship in completely 50/50 because that’s how I believe relationships should be. So please don’t make incorrect accusations without taking time to come up with a thoughtful response.

Thank you.
well if you look closely Kate, you’ll see that I I said here that RELATIONSHIPS are 50/50.

As it relates to my answer to the question regarding men hitting women back, if you’ll read my answer (without getting mad) I said that physically men and women have different strengths and weaknesses.

And for the record the only reason that I’m up right now at 4:41 A.M. asking questions and posting answers is because I’m watching my 3 week old son overnight while my wife gets some rest.

You see, she just gave birth recently and I stay up over night everynight since he’s been born so that she can rest.

I’m sorry that you life has been full of horrible experiences with men, but there are a few of us good ones out.

Thank you.

On the 7th of november i am going to a concert, its my all time favourite band. So im really excited. Anyway it will be the first time i have left my son. He will be 15 months old.

My mum knows about us (me and fiance) going to the concert as she paid for half of the ticket as a birthday present for me. She just assumed she would be looking after my son and when i told her that my cousin is going to be looking after him instead she didnt really listen to me and she still assumes she will be looking after him.

My mum smokes and so does my dad and their house absolutely stinks of smoke. My mum goes to bed very early, around 7.30pm, me and my son dont usually go to bed until anywhere from 10.30pm-midnight. Which suits us fine as we wake up late, about 8-9am. My fiance works night shift so its nice we all get a sleep in in the mornings. I could not imagine my mum being able to stay up that late with my son. It would be ok because my dad stays up late but he isnt to comfortable around my son, he will play with him for like 10 minutes before he starts to get a bit nervous and anxious and brings him back to me. Also her food hygiene is almost 0! She was cutting chicken for dinner the other night and then wiped her hands on a tea towel and then used that towel to dry dishes! Lucky i pointed it out to her and she changed the towel and just said "oh i never even think about that". So who knows how many times she has done that before. Also if my son drops food off his high chair, like bits of fruit or something she just puts it straight back in his bowl and doesnt wash it or anything.

We have asked my cousin to look after him. She often looks after her sisters (my other cousin) 2 kids who are 3 and 6 months old, so she knows what she is doing. Plus she has just studied to be a pre school teacher. I just feel more comfortable knowing he will be safe.

I have told my mum the reasons why i dont want her looking after him but she just says "oh il be fine, i raised you two" (me and my brother). She promises not to smoke inside and that she will stay up with him, but i just dont know. I mean, i would most likely leave him with her because he knows her much better than he knows my cousin because he doesnt see her very often but fiance has said a big fat no because he doesnt like her smoking, which is his biggest issue. Which i completely understand.

So how can i make her understand that she is infact not looking after him and that my cousin is. Without having to be real mean about it?
My mum refuses to come to our house. We have 2 pitbulls and she hates them. They are great dogs and if she wanted to she could lock them outside. But she refuses to be around them because she thinks they are going to kill her.

I could arrange for them to go to a kennel, but thats more money which we dont have and too much bother. Actually.. a few days without our dogs could be nice.. i may talk to fiance about this

Dead next to three photos.

Part 1.
Mrs. Fatima sat at her chair that stood against the yellow painted wall of the living room. The fan whirred above her, squeaking as it turned from side to side. The door of the room facing her remained closed for two months. To her right side, the kitchen smelt of rot bananas with a cup of coffee lying at the bottom of the sink since her son’s last visit, two weeks ago.

The grey light from the round lamp at the ceiling, gave a mysterious aura to Mrs. Fatima’s brown, wrinkled skin. She clicked the golden ring at the forefinger against her knee, and then raised her head to the ceiling. In her white night dress she looked a like a pride waiting for her lover to return, but a dying pride would be of no use.

She dreaded mirrors. She escaped them, afraid to see how time had misshaped her, leaving nothing of her once charming features. Beauty abandoned her. Her cheekbones stuck out under her green eyes and her nose got longer with the skin flattening at around it. Her teeth went yellow and weaker; her jaw dropped to her neck and stiffened at the edges that she could barely move it up and down to eat.

The reality of change had destroyed her life. Her husband died and her three daughters and son got married and left her to the silence of her apartment. Her body stiffened all over and her back arched forward; the front of her feet swelled. She’d feel like walking on hard wood that broke apart and stuck out, piercing through her skin.

The crying went on for four years, since the death of her husband. But by the beginning of the fifth year, she realized that there was no use. Her tears dried up and she knew that no one would ever care to watch them as they twinkled in the light of the room, falling to the ground. The tears were gone.

No one would hug her when she felt cold; no one would sleep beside her and show her how it felt to be a woman. She wondered, what was the use of pain if no one could see it?

She raised her head to the ceiling and her jaw shook as she tried to talk. “God, can you hear me?” She pressed the wooden handle of the chair. “ I cannot be alone any longer. I wish to die.”

She imagined that by tomorrow morning, Mrs. Dalia her neighbor would keep on knocking but she wouldn’t open for she‘d be dead. The neighbors would break the door and Mrs. Dalia would scream and run to her bed and hug her. She’d talk of how she visited her everyday and how she took care of her, of how she told her of her secrets and how she loved her like a mother.

Some minutes later, someone knocked at the door. Mrs. Fatima pressed her hand against the wooden handle of the chair and got to her feet. Bowing forward, she walked to the door. Her whole body shook and stiffened as she tried to steady herself. “Who’s there?” A raspy voice replied back, “Hussein, Mom.” She pushed back the lock with one finger and the door flung open. The door had newly painted white bars behind which thick, non-transparent glass stood. She could see the shadow of the one knocking, like a ghost, arriving to summon her soul.

The bathroom was so small that you couldn’t have a shower unless you were standing. The shower handle hung right above the toilet with the soap bar resting under it at the tiled floor. After having a quick shower, Hussein peed, wore back his shirt and trousers then went to his mother’s room.

Mrs. Fatima Sat at her bed, her feet crossed in the darkness and her thumbs rolling around each other in illusionary circles. Hussein sat next to her and pressed her hand gently against the bed sheet. “How are you, Mom?” She closed her eyes then tugged her hand and pressed it against her chest.

“Mom, I know how it feels to be alone. I’m doing my best. I have a job to do, kids to feed. I can’t be around here beside you all day long. Please, forgive me.” Mrs. Fatima turned her face to the wall as Hussein lowered his face to ground. “I know you feel so bad about me. You’re wondering why is life so cruel to you. I don’t have an answer. I’m sorry.” He patted her on the shoulder and went to the bed next to her.

“It’d be better if you talked to me.” He said examining the ceiling. “What the heck? Good night.” He placed the pillow over his head and after some minutes, he was snoring.

Mrs. Fatima closed her eyes and remained ever conscious to the soft hum of air outside her window.

Part 2
She realized it was morning, not from the light seeping from the window next to her bed, but from the smell of fried beans that twirled up her window every morning for the last forty-five years. The smell wafted up from the small restaurant, belonging to a short man called El. Hag Ahmed. Mrs. Fatima woke to the sound of Hag Ahmed’s shrill voice every morning. He shouted, laughed and spitted. She never got fed up. It reminded her of her younger days when she used to sprint down the stairs and buy her parents and sister some beans from his shop.

Dead next to three photos.

Part 1.
Mrs. Fatima sat at her chair that stood against the yellow painted wall of the living room. The fan whirred above her, squeaking as it turned from side to side. The door of the room facing her remained closed for two months. To her right side, the kitchen smelt of rot bananas with a cup of coffee lying at the bottom of the sink since her son’s last visit, two weeks ago.

The grey light from the round lamp at the ceiling, gave a mysterious aura to Mrs. Fatima’s brown, wrinkled skin. She clicked the golden ring at the forefinger against her knee, and then raised her head to the ceiling. In her white night dress she looked a like a pride waiting for her lover to return, but a dying pride would be of no use.

She dreaded mirrors. She escaped them, afraid to see how time had misshaped her, leaving nothing of her once charming features. Beauty abandoned her. Her cheekbones stuck out under her green eyes and her nose got longer with the skin flattening at around it. Her teeth went yellow and weaker; her jaw dropped to her neck and stiffened at the edges that she could barely move it up and down to eat.

The reality of change had destroyed her life. Her husband died and her three daughters and son got married and left her to the silence of her apartment. Her body stiffened all over and her back arched forward; the front of her feet swelled. She’d feel like walking on hard wood that broke apart and stuck out, piercing through her skin.

The crying went on for four years, since the death of her husband. But by the beginning of the fifth year, she realized that there was no use. Her tears dried up and she knew that no one would ever care to watch them as they twinkled in the light of the room, falling to the ground. The tears were gone.

No one would hug her when she felt cold; no one would sleep beside her and show her how it felt to be a woman. She wondered, what was the use of pain if no one could see it?

She raised her head to the ceiling and her jaw shook as she tried to talk. “God, can you hear me?” She pressed the wooden handle of the chair. “ I cannot be alone any longer. I wish to die.”

She imagined that by tomorrow morning, Mrs. Dalia her neighbor would keep on knocking but she wouldn’t open for she‘d be dead. The neighbors would break the door and Mrs. Dalia would scream and run to her bed and hug her. She’d talk of how she visited her everyday and how she took care of her, of how she told her of her secrets and how she loved her like a mother.

Some minutes later, someone knocked at the door. Mrs. Fatima pressed her hand against the wooden handle of the chair and got to her feet. Bowing forward, she walked to the door. Her whole body shook and stiffened as she tried to steady herself. “Who’s there?” A raspy voice replied back, “Hussein, Mom.” She pushed back the lock with one finger and the door flung open. The door had newly painted white bars behind which thick, non-transparent glass stood. She could see the shadow of the one knocking, like a ghost, arriving to summon her soul.

The bathroom was so small that you couldn’t have a shower unless you were standing. The shower handle hung right above the toilet with the soap bar resting under it at the tiled floor. After having a quick shower, Hussein peed, wore back his shirt and trousers then went to his mother’s room.

Mrs. Fatima Sat at her bed, her feet crossed in the darkness and her thumbs rolling around each other in illusionary circles. Hussein sat next to her and pressed her hand gently against the bed sheet. “How are you, Mom?” She closed her eyes then tugged her hand and pressed it against her chest.

“Mom, I know how it feels to be alone. I’m doing my best. I have a job to do, kids to feed. I can’t be around here beside you all day long. Please, forgive me.” Mrs. Fatima turned her face to the wall as Hussein lowered his face to ground. “I know you feel so bad about me. You’re wondering why is life so cruel to you. I don’t have an answer. I’m sorry.” He patted her on the shoulder and went to the bed next to her.

“It’d be better if you talked to me.” He said examining the ceiling. “What the heck? Good night.” He placed the pillow over his head and after some minutes, he was snoring.

Mrs. Fatima closed her eyes and remained ever conscious to the soft hum of air outside her window.

Part 2
She realized it was morning, not from the light seeping from the window next to her bed, but from the smell of fried beans that twirled up her window every morning for the last forty-five years. The smell wafted up from the small restaurant, belonging to a short man called El. Hag Ahmed. Mrs. Fatima woke to the sound of Hag Ahmed’s shrill voice every morning. He shouted, laughed and spitted. She never got fed up. It reminded her of her younger days when she used to sprint down the stairs and buy her parents and sister some beans from his shop.

I moved in with my roomate/landord in early May. He’s 42 and I’m 22. He owns the condo and is the landlord. We’ve gotten close as friends these past few months and started sleeping together. We both know that nothing will come out of the relationship and that it’s basically meaningless sex. I’m still paying rent by the way. He’s not taking advantage of me..so don’t say he is just because of the age difference. He has been wanting to slow down because he said it’s not fair to both of us to have sex without love/relationship. He also feels guilty because I’m so much younger than him. He basically just wants me to touch him. He says he loves my touch and that touch doesn’t have to lead to sex. However, usually me touching him does lead to sex. 2 days ago I told him no more touching or sex. He said that we can’t go from touching all the time to no contact and that it will take about a week to completely go back to no sex/touching. I don’t want to have anything to do with him anymore..maybe just friendly chit chat.
We were walking down the street yesterday and he were discussing how we’re not going to have sex anymore and no touching. He got really angry and then pushed me (granted it wasn’t that hard..but it was shocking nonetheless) I was shocked and just walked off. He apologized that night saying that he didn’t mean it and it was an automatic response. He tried to blame for his pushing me by implying that I wanted to be pushed. He says that I’m so irritating that and implied I asked for it.
Should I just move out at this point?
Last night..I wanted to sleep in my own bed (we usually sleep in the same bed)…and he got upset saying that he can’t handle my emotional distance..being that we have been so emotionally close.
He wanted me to just hold him in bed to help him fall asleep.
He is Indian and awhile ago he said he was raised to respect women. However, his dad did beat his mom growing up..so this might have something to do with it.

He’s admitted he once pushed a past girlfriend..and that he has gotten into fist fights with his father.
He said that this side of him really scares him..but that he can’t control it. It just happens without him thinking. He begged me for forgiveness…
I said to him that I can’t be sure he wouldn’t do it again. He then said II should move out but that he won’t do it again if I stay.
However, I don’t have anywhere else to go…
What should I do?

Dead next to three photos.

Part 1.
Mrs. Fatima sat at her chair that stood against the yellow painted wall of the living room. The fan whirred above her, squeaking as it turned from side to side. The door of the room facing her remained closed for two months. To her right side, the kitchen smelt of rot bananas with a cup of coffee lying at the bottom of the sink since her son’s last visit, two weeks ago.

The grey light from the round lamp at the ceiling, gave a mysterious aura to Mrs. Fatima’s brown, wrinkled skin. She clicked the golden ring at the forefinger against her knee, and then raised her head to the ceiling. In her white night dress she looked a like a pride waiting for her lover to return, but a dying pride would be of no use.

She dreaded mirrors. She escaped them, afraid to see how time had misshaped her, leaving nothing of her once charming features. Beauty abandoned her. Her cheekbones stuck out under her green eyes and her nose got longer with the skin flattening at around it. Her teeth went yellow and weaker; her jaw dropped to her neck and stiffened at the edges that she could barely move it up and down to eat.

The reality of change had destroyed her life. Her husband died and her three daughters and son got married and left her to the silence of her apartment. Her body stiffened all over and her back arched forward; the front of her feet swelled. She’d feel like walking on hard wood that broke apart and stuck out, piercing through her skin.

The crying went on for four years, since the death of her husband. But by the beginning of the fifth year, she realized that there was no use. Her tears dried up and she knew that no one would ever care to watch them as they twinkled in the light of the room, falling to the ground. The tears were gone.

No one would hug her when she felt cold; no one would sleep beside her and show her how it felt to be a woman. She wondered, what was the use of pain if no one could see it?

She raised her head to the ceiling and her jaw shook as she tried to talk. “God, can you hear me?” She pressed the wooden handle of the chair. “ I cannot be alone any longer. I wish to die.”

She imagined that by tomorrow morning, Mrs. Dalia her neighbor would keep on knocking but she wouldn’t open for she‘d be dead. The neighbors would break the door and Mrs. Dalia would scream and run to her bed and hug her. She’d talk of how she visited her everyday and how she took care of her, of how she told her of her secrets and how she loved her like a mother.

Some minutes later, someone knocked at the door. Mrs. Fatima pressed her hand against the wooden handle of the chair and got to her feet. Bowing forward, she walked to the door. Her whole body shook and stiffened as she tried to steady herself. “Who’s there?” A raspy voice replied back, “Hussein, Mom.” She pushed back the lock with one finger and the door flung open. The door had newly painted white bars behind which thick, non-transparent glass stood. She could see the shadow of the one knocking, like a ghost, arriving to summon her soul.

The bathroom was so small that you couldn’t have a shower unless you were standing. The shower handle hung right above the toilet with the soap bar resting under it at the tiled floor. After having a quick shower, Hussein peed, wore back his shirt and trousers then went to his mother’s room.

Mrs. Fatima Sat at her bed, her feet crossed in the darkness and her thumbs rolling around each other in illusionary circles. Hussein sat next to her and pressed her hand gently against the bed sheet. “How are you, Mom?” She closed her eyes then tugged her hand and pressed it against her chest.

“Mom, I know how it feels to be alone. I’m doing my best. I have a job to do, kids to feed. I can’t be around here beside you all day long. Please, forgive me.” Mrs. Fatima turned her face to the wall as Hussein lowered his face to ground. “I know you feel so bad about me. You’re wondering why is life so cruel to you. I don’t have an answer. I’m sorry.” He patted her on the shoulder and went to the bed next to her.

“It’d be better if you talked to me.” He said examining the ceiling. “What the heck? Good night.” He placed the pillow over his head and after some minutes, he was snoring.

Mrs. Fatima closed her eyes and remained ever conscious to the soft hum of air outside her window.

Part 2
She realized it was morning, not from the light seeping from the window next to her bed, but from the smell of fried beans that twirled up her window every morning for the last forty-five years. The smell wafted up from the small restaurant, belonging to a short man called El. Hag Ahmed. Mrs. Fatima woke to the sound of Hag Ahmed’s shrill voice every morning. He shouted, laughed and spitted. She never got fed up. It reminded her of her younger days when she used to sprint down the stairs and buy her parents and sister some beans from his shop.