The Rebellious Curator

One of my fondest memories of my late mom happened only months before she passed away. She and I sometimes poked around thrift stores, and one day she found an old children's book written entirely in German. She said she knew the book well and that it had a humorous story about a boy who refused to cut his fingernails. When we got home, she couldn't wait to look at this little book with its foxing and crinkled pages. She began to read aloud in German, and because my German is poor, she attempted to translate for me. As she read aloud, she started to giggle at the story and could scarcely get the words out enough to translate even one word. Every attempt at sharing the humor of the story would be overtaken by fits of giggles that caused her eyes to water. Soon I was giggling too, and it was cathartic and joyful for both of us. Little did I know she would be leaving in only a few short months. Today, the little book sits in my bookcase along with my art books and is a comforting reminder of the shortness of life and how unexpected little things can bring so much joy.