Toddlers and Angels
June 4th—the day my sister Sharon died—always makes me pause. My mind shifts back to the dark days of 1994. Then, when the veil between here and after was thin and my mind was continually occupied by thoughts of my sister - memories, regrets, wishes - I was on high alert, ever watchful for her presence. Desperate for a sign that she was okay was a natural response to the traumatic way she died. I wanted reassurance. I found myself looking for women that looked like her in the grocery store or on the street, just to get a glimpse of her face one more time. For months, even years later, my heart would nearly leap out of my chest when I spied a young lady with long, dark, curly hair or a face that resembled hers. Of course, I was invariably disappointed when that person wasn't Sharon, and I couldn't pretend it was all somehow just a bad dream. But there were a few times, when our daughter was a baby and toddler, when it wasn't me but Anne who seemed especially attuned...
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