Glimpses of Sharon

This is the first picture in my family's oldest photo album. It's my mother in late 1975.

I've seen this Polaroid more times than I can count, dating back to the earliest reaches of my memory. I loved looking through the albums as a child. I studied them so many times that my brain simplified the details. That is a picture of my mother; that is a picture of my mother decorating a Christmas tree; that is a picture of my mother holding my brother and sister when they were toddlers.

When I asked to borrow these albums to scan them, I wasn't prepared for the minutiae of my family's daily life to spring out at me from the past, somehow sharp and subtle at the same time.

I think she may be wearing a The Wizard of Oz shirt, because I think I can make out the Tin Man and the Scarecrow. I might be mistaken. The woman I know doesn't wear screen tees with pop culture references, but this Sharon Coin does. Maybe she has a coat indoors because, like me, she gets cold easily. I think she's in her army barrack. She may be wearing her dog tags.

She's making a sandwich. And she isn't using a plate. She sets that bread right on the stove. This is definitely not the woman I know. And she's putting mayo on it. For as far back as I can remember, we've never had mayo in the fridge, just Miracle Whip (which is vastly superior). On the shelf above her is a loaf of Wonder Bread, the brand we used all through my childhood in the '80s.

There is another Polaroid on the stove, near the bread. I don't know what it's a picture of, because I've never seen it. It's not in the photo album.

She's only twenty-two, nearly ten years younger than I am. If she were a customer of mine, I'd probably think how young twenty-two years looks to me now.

After I scanned this, I sat studying it for a long while, picking out these details from a time before I existed, examining this face I know so well even though I've never seen it so young, framed by such long, thick hair.

We have the same high forehead, I noticed again. The same jawline when we smile, the same cheeks that pop out. My sister shares that mouth with us; my brother, the forehead. We're all pieces of this beautiful woman who was nearly still a girl, smiling shyly for the camera with her entire life ahead of her.

As I looked through the pictures, things began to stand out to me.

 That's not Mom holding Jeremiah when he was little. That's a woman rapt in the spell of her newborn.

That's not Mom on a couch. That's a woman taking a moment to rest while her little baby naps beside her.

That's not Mom pregnant at Christmastime. That's a woman enjoying the first Christmas she gets to share with a child of her own, with the excitement of another one due in less than a month.

That's my mother, but it's not. It's a small piece of the puzzle, a part that makes up the whole of Sharon. Sometimes I think I know her well, but there's so much more to her than I have any idea. I'm not sure we can ever know our parents completely as a person. But I'm still holding out hope that one day I will.

A Stranger on a Train. Somewhere.

Sitting cross-legged on Amanté's bed, I could hear a midnight train passing somewhere in the distance.


"I've always loved that sound," I told him. "Since I first moved to Evansville..."


It took me a minute to remember that's where I was. That same train whistle cutting through the quiet countryside, the same schedule.


Evansville was the first place I lived where I could remember hearing a train. In Florida, we were on a tiny barrier island and in Colorado Springs, any tracks near us weren't near enough.


For the first month my family were in Evansville, we lived in an unsettling little house. The ant invasions topped anything I've seen before or since, including a North Carolina kitchen in the summertime. The backyard was huge, but swamp-like with mud. The windows were unnaturally high-set and small, so the house was always dim. My closet smelled like cheese, no matter how much I aired it out. The neighbors told us a little girl had drowned in the pool in the backyard. And I don't care what you believe in and what you don't; all I know is, I without a doubt heard the sound of someone whistling a melody coming from the other side of the shower curtain multiple times when I knew absolutely that I was home alone.


I didn't sleep well there. On several occasions, I was awakened by the tickle of ants crawling on me. Other times, it was from the sound of movement; I was certain someone was creeping around my room in the dark. Making myself as small as possible, I did my best to tuck the sheets around me--over my head and all--to keep out both insects and spooks. Whatever it was I thought I saw standing beside my bed sometimes when I woke up, it wasn't going to catch me with my guard down.


Alone and trembling, I strained my ears for signs of life. My own household was always quiet. Rarely, I heard a car on the street, but it passed so quickly that it offered little companionship. My only comfort on those endless winter nights was the whistle of the train.


It rang through the sleeping city, echoed across the miles to my small, high window, found its way through the layers of my security blanket. It was there every night, more than once, without fail. I'd listen for it, willing it to sound, unsure of the time. While I could hear it, I could relax. I'd let myself stretch out, sometimes even pull the sheets down a little to breathe some fresh air. For a few minutes, the ants on the dresser and the specter lurking my room and even the ghost in the shower, forever haunted by that song, ceased to matter, because someone was waving to me in the dark. I wasn't alone. I hoped the conductor sensed that someone else was out there, waving back.


When we moved to another neighborhood, a less creepy house, I could rarely hear the train anymore. In truth, I didn't feel the need to listen for it. Sometimes I wondered if it missed me.