She saw her child as a part of immortality;
her book, as immortality itself,
for it would bear her name forever.
I loved you before I knew you.
I loved my family as I loved myself,
but you surpassed even that.
Writing was her life,
but her daughter was her daughter,
whom she loved more than her own life.
She loved the son who would never tell her he loved her;
she loved the mother who would never remember her.