He rubbed his head and muttered, "I must be dreaming." He knelt down to touch the pot when Deana grabbed his shoulder. With a scared voice she uttered... “What’s that?”Mark touched her arm and with a reassuring tone answered, “Looks like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. An Irish myth, but we must be dreaming.”Deana snickered and asked, “Pinch me for sure, I want to make sure I’m not dreaming.”Mark reached over and pinched her arm and she yelped, “Ouch, why’d yah do that?”He answered,. Having grown up without a mother, it was only natural that I had no one to tell me that I was the most beautiful person in the world( but, considering the typical mama’s of those days, I seriously doubt I would have ever had such words uttered to me by her.), but as is the case in most stories, my mother-figure came in the form of my personal handmaid, Martha- complete with bedtime stories ,motherly scolding and illogical concerns. My beauty, if it can be called that was nothing eye-catching-. More

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