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There was a sunny day. Cosimo, with a bowl in the tree, was making soap bubbles and blowing them in through the window toward the bed of the sick woman. Mama saw those colors of the rainbow flying and filling the room and said, “Oh, what games you play!”—as when we were boys and she always disapproved of our amusements as too silly and childish. But now, perhaps for the first time, she took pleasure in a game of ours. The soap bubbles reached her face and with her breath she burst them, and smiled. A bubble settled on her lips and remained intact. We leaned over her. Cosimo dropped the bowl. She was dead.
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