Tonight I finally watched this documentary on the Korean War that I had been meaning to see for some time. Mom, Dad and I made it a night with microwave popcorn, pillows and peaches. (I am not trying to be alliteratively cute here--I really did have some canned peaches to balance the saltiness of the popcorn.) Anyway, I knew what to expect before the DVD went on--Mom was going to tell me all of her war stories, and Dad's too, as if I had never heard them before. Tonight I didn't mind. I let her bask in her storytelling.About how she as a young teenager escaped from the Communist North under gunfire to reach the safety of the South; how she had been separated from her mother for more than three days and how against all odds they reunited by the train tracks.
How my father had been imprisoned in the South, charged with being a North Korean spy; how a Japanese soldier with the U.N. helped uncover evidence to prove that he was a civilian; how he wrote letters on old newsprint to American schools asking for an academic scholarship.
The documentary wasn't the most stimulating. But that didn't stop me from feeling.
Life is mysterious; life is miraculous.
