He told me this himself-- not in words, but in his hands. --This is where the journey begins
He Told Me Himself
Where the Names Begin
It began with a question that never quite settled--how did he get there?
Not Every Story Is Written Down
Some stories are still waiting-- in quiet places, in moments that seem small until they are gone.
The First Farewell
He was six years old. Standing beside his mother at a train station in Union City, Tennessee--about to leave home for the first time.
Why It Wasn’t a Signing Home
In my first fragment, I wrote that it took me years to understand that our home wasn't truly a signing home. It took me even longer to understand the love behind it.
The Hands That Shaped Me
"I was beginning to sense that my father and mother spoke in different ways, living in different worlds of communication that I would learn to move between."
The First Train Ride 