WhenIsatatthedesk,tryingtowritetheessay,Ifoundithardtosetpentopaper.StaringatthetopicIdeliberatelychoseformyself"mymother",Ifeltthememoryof20yearswithmymothersuddenlyturnedintoahaze,blurringmyeyestodiscernthepast,withnothingtowering,nothingflaring,nothingimpressiveorspecialenoughasalandmark.Thehazegraduallyclearedaway,revealingtheimageofanamicablewoman.Irecalledalinefromthefamousmovie"SleeplessinSeattle".TheradiocolumnhostessaskedSam,"What'ssospecialaboutyourwife?"Heanswered,"That'smillionsofsmallthings."Right,trivialandcommonplace,likeobscurebeans,yetwovenintothemostspectacularnecklacebythepoweroflove.Mymotherisordinary,butinmyeyessheisspecial.