life as a bookshelf...

This maybe the closer thing that describes our lives, in a nutshell. The chapters of our experiences, written out in full detail. Details that only the mind can know fully, leaving us with visual images that tell the Story in part, to the best of our recollection.

She was not yet 20. A young woman on her way home from work, early evening. Germany, the first year of WW1. She didn't see them, she heard them coming from behind. Soon this young woman would be running for her life. Being chased by a enemy plane. Being shot at, running as fast as she could...home. She would run up to the third floor apartment where she lived with her mother and father. The apartment building would soon be hit and fire will take over all the apartments. She will hear a mother in the building screaming, and run down and see the baby on fire. Wrapping her up in a blanket, the young woman runs out into the street looking for help for her and the baby. When she gets on the street, she uncovers the blanket to find little left that is recognizable.

This is the Story I had be told a few times, while growing up. I have no idea how much of it was true but it was told to explain my mother's mental condition. It sits on the bookshelf with some other Stories, that are equally, hard to believe. Each of us has a bookshelf full of memories and experiences and when we want to understand, we go to our bookshelf, for help.

My bookshelf is overwhelming, even to me but it is mine. The good and the bad,maybe hard to believe but I wouldn't change a thing. It has taken a lifetime to get here, but it is the honest to God truth...