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When I was a little girl, I lived with my mom and rented two bedroom house just outside

Cleveland, Ohio. The paint was chipping and there were stains on the shag carpet that had

been there since the 70s and the heater broke each year on cue in the middle of January.

But there was a big backyard with a big tree to climb and I thought the dump was a castle.

My mom was a small woman. Only about 5'1, slender and pale. Her eyes were large and

deep set, giving her a look of perpetual exhaustion and world weariness. I loved playing with

her long chestnut hair. It was smooth and shiny and soft, like a feather, so different

from my own coarse mess of black frizz. Her voice was musical, usually measured and

deliberate. But if she became angry or upset, a distinct southern twang lurked around

the edges of her words. Networks of tiny lines extended from the corner of each of her

eyes, premature crow's feet, which became more pronounced when she smiled. So even when

she was laughing, she looked like she was sad.

Mom was a professional photographer. She did weddings and parties mostly. Graduations,

medias, family reunions, any sort of gathering people paid immemorial eyes. Pictures defined

my childhood. Photos and frames on the walls and propped on every flat surface, filling

cheap albums stacked in my mom's closet, sealed in savon envelopes, stored in boxes.

...