She saw her child as a part of immortality;
her book, as immortality itself,
for it would bear her name forever.
She loved the son who would never tell her he loved her;
she loved the mother who would never remember her.
I loved you before I knew you.
I loved my family as I loved myself,
but you surpassed even that.
She was not unemployed,
but had been placed in a
permanent volunteer position, with a
job description that changed daily.
Writing was her life,
but her daughter was her daughter,
whom she loved more than her own life.