When looking for two frustratingly lost books this morning, I came across this random assembly of titles on a shelf: I read in their titles a tribute to the largess of Sistah Maya, who eloquently in her speech and posture, testimony and poems,
was our dark symphony; a courageous chronicler of the brackish and briny currents of her own life, yet a messenger giving birth to all of our brightnesses; a fierce friend, we pray who is resting now adorned in the neatly fitted wings she desired and golden slippers.
