Words like ‘love’ were saved for special moments in grown up lives, a word that if defined would mean, hard work, joining together in the tasks of everyday living with a special person, a person chosen to duplicate this same world of love. At times this love meant doing the things we would rather not do but understood somewhere deep within that if we didn’t do our part then someone would go without, including ourselves—and of course there would be consequences for leaving the thing undone.
Love was the reason why dad worked hard and would work at any job in order to put food on the table for six children. Love recognized that there was a place around the table for each of us. Love for me began with the security that home gave when bombs were falling and we were all in it together—taking care that when we huddled together in the darkness of the air-raid shelter no one was missing.