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August 24, 2008
The deepest sadness comes in memories of her voice. I loved to hear her quavering tones of adopted confidence, as though she’d found it orphaned in the street, made instantly her own by the unofficial love given of a childless parent. Her enthusiastic, full-throated laugh would burst forth at unscripted moments, full of mirth at a shared imagination. She was a solid sponge of southern positivism soaked in the wry liquid sarcasm of the country, which sounds jaded when it really, secretly wonders. “Possibilities” was then the motto, creed and battle-cry of the hopeful maybe. All was possible, new-sprouting growth.