Her smile worked all through her. Her presence just in front of me accounted for the likelihood of future daylight. Otherwise I hurt with my surroundings. Shame might have dissolved because of her commitment to the things one talks about en route to and from school, a center that included stage left and conjugation. I was never really sixteen. Her picture in the top left of the newspaper beautifully written now is vibrant. She is wearing glasses and her smile reminds me I am older now than she was when she drove us up the snow-filled hill. The poem of mine I knew she liked besides the one about my father when he died was one that started 'a woman wants to be a daughter all her life.' I grew up thinking honesty would be impossible to take unless one could agree with all authority. Her children said things. Each one in her family used words. I knew only formulas that had no harmo!
ny. I
listened to her children's voices find a level I could only imitate. Once her husband a true genius turned to me and marveled over something that she had just done: synthesize the first act for a man who'd missed a plane and had entered right at intermission. I am fondest of people who exude conviction that their partners transcend anybody's wildest luck.
Sheila e. murphy
