Once upon a time, when I was a little girl of about six years, I was rummaging around in the hall closet in the home where I grew up. I came across a stack of old typed papers and asked my mother about them. She told me that they were the pages of a story that her mother had written for her when she was about my age. She took the papers, re-stacked them and stuffed them back into the drawer. She did not offer to read them to me, which puzzles me when I think back on it, because my mother read to my brother and me almost every evening at bed time, but never “her” story.
And so those old pages grew ever older, tucked safely away and seemingly forgotten. It was not until over 50 years had passed that those pages saw the light of day, when I once again came across them while going through my mother’s things…for one last time…