My mother grew up in Highland Park, then a suburban fringe of Los Angeles, during the dark years of The Great Depression and World War II. She was sweet and unassuming, always afraid to impose or be the center of attention. And yet, right up to the last week of her life, she never stopped writing letters in her beautiful calligraphy, drawing pictures, and retelling stories of her youth. The words that follow are mine, but the experiences and feelings...
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Poetry