It is always her voice I hear when when I write something private and deep and need to hear the words read back to me. It will always be her voice I hear. The confident slow cadence of her manner of speaking, and of reading. The comfort of unconditional acceptance, so evident in her legacy. My forever friend and comforter, that never knew I existed, has passed. I am rejoicing for her and selfishly deeply saddened. It brings fresh tears of grief for my grandmother, my Nannie, who gave me my collection of Maya’s writings, and others, and encouraged me to write, always. Neither of these ladies would want me to sob with grief. And both would have let me lay in their lap to do so.