Sophia: When I was a kid in Sicily I loved lightning bugs. I'd stand out in the field and watch them light up the night sky. That was magical. That was spectacular. I tell you, I saw a thousand points of light... It was a kinder, gentler America. I turned to my wife, Barbara, and I--

Dorothy: Ma, what the hell are you talking about?

Sophia: Oh, sorry. I must've lapsed into George Bush's inauguration speech. Where was I?

Dorothy: Lightning bugs.

Sophia: Right. I liked them so much I'd catch them in glass jars so I could watch them light up whenever I wanted. But they always died.

Dorothy: I see what you mean. They needed their freedom.

Sophia: No, they needed their air. I always forgot to punch holes in there. The point is, it's the same with all magical moments. You can't capture them forever, no matter what Kodak tells you.

Dorothy: So, what you're saying, Ma, is that, like a lightning bug, I put you in a glass jar, and, by waiting for you to light up, I nearly suffocated you.

Sophia: Jeez, Dorothy. You sure know how to beat a metaphor to death.