Sometimes I, too, have nearly given in to the desire to run a needle and thread through my innumerable disappointments and rejections and pain and weave them into an impenetrable armor.

But, girl, I’ve watched the way you rub cuticle oil along the quick of your nails and have seen the vases of dried flowers on your desk where you write;

I’ve studied the soft lines of your elbows and how thoughtfully you tie up your baby’s breath hair even when you think no one else will see;

You’re nearly a Renaissance painting when we talk over FaceTime and you’re wearing your Emory crew neck and your sage green turban with your fairy lights and pothos plants crawling behind you;

Everyone sees the graceful motion of your wrists when you laugh and bring your hands together as if you’re going to clap or pray.

You a city of a woman, like Lucille said.

Nikki would have said she liked your voice and wrote a poem about you.

You have the kind of phenomenal grace Maya famously saw in herself.

And it would be a crueler, less beautiful world if you decided to lock all your softness and light away in a pretty box between your smile and shadow.

So, for heaven’s sake, don’t let them rob of us your honeycomb heart.