My mother never thought the story of her life was all that special. She actually never gave it much thought at all. In truth, neither did I.
Until one terrible stormy night, in my attempt to help calm her fear of thunder, I sat her down and asked her to share her memories while I took notes.
I asked my mother about her favorite fun things to do when she was a child.
She told me about the days she spent as a little girl in Sicily during WWII, hiding in the basement of her war-torn home while sounds of planes flying overhead were followed by too-close-for-comfort explosions of the bombs they were dropping. My mother’s eyes welled up with tears as she acknowledged that she didn’t get to have a very happy childhood.
I never knew.
I then asked mom if she had ever been rebellious as a teenager.
She immediately lit up like a firefly reminiscing about her 16-year old self in the 1940s, walking on cobblestone streets, teetering on her high heels from exhaustion, hurrying to get home in time to help make dinner after a long day working as a seamstress’ apprentice.
