Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Lives of Our Own

Whether trying to appear strong and self sufficient, or out of loneliness, turning us into confidantes with a façade of stories that reflect them in the best light, we can never really know our parents. It's only when they slip unguarded and share a story that moves too fast to censor, that we witness the person who existed before they were parent.

I write of just such a story, of my mother when she was young, beautiful, and she first met my father.

I am proud to share it today on Purple Clover .

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1 comment:

  1. Those are the stories we cherish. They never grow old. I love hearing the tales of how, where and when my parents fell in love. Such stories are a legacy for their children and grandchildren.



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