Sometimes Sarah walked through the fields for hours, only returning to the Ohio farmhouse when she was tired, hungry, or just lonely. And on her way home she often visited the family cemetery with its dark windows into the past. Swift ashen mirages seemed to reveal themselves upon the tablets of the tombstones, providing a glimpse into the past lives of the Inman family — her Inman family.

“Hello, down there,” Sarah said to each of her deceased relatives, touching their gravestones gingerly. “What will it be like when I’m dead? Will you tell me all about your lives when I’m down there with you?”

Sarah closed her eyes and imagined herself six feet underground. She knelt beside her father’s grave and looked closely at the swirling marble tombstone, outlining the dates with her right index finger. “Born 1955, died 1994,” Sarah said aloud. “You died too young, Samuel Inman. I wish I knew you when you were alive.”