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.
When a stranger on a motorcycle rode up and stopped to ask if she wanted a ride, she didn’t hesitate, in part because her feet hurt and in part because “he was such a cute boy!” Despite knowing there’d be hell to pay if her father found out, my mom jumped on the back of that bike and stole a moment of freedom and independence.
Without me prompting her further, my mom smiled wide and her eyes seemed to sparkle as she relived the memory. She told me that being on the back of that bike with that cute boy was one of the most thrilling experiences she had ever had, and that even if she had ended up getting caught and punished, she would – without question – have done it again.
I never knew.
And had I not taken the time to sit down and ask the questions and drawn the stories out and taken pen to paper to write them down, I would never have known these stories and so many more of my mother and the life she had lived and the lessons she had learned.
It dawns on me that with that storm so long ago knocking out power, I stopped long enough to sit with my mother, to ask questions about her and the life she had lived, and to listen. Divine intervention, I believe, had a hand in making sure I was given this opportunity. It was up to me, however, to take action and have it matter.
Madness enters into everyone’s lives. Shifting one’s perspective so as to see the potential magic within the madness is the stuff of great stories.
Everyone has a story to tell.
I thank God or the Universe or [whatever you call this thing that’s greater than yourself] for the push to learn my mother’s story, and that of my father’s. It strengthens my faith in knowing that through their stories, they’re still with me today.
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