She gets in the car and is ready to write. No one is telling her what to do or where to do. No obligations anymore, no bells signaling changing classes, no need to do homework, no places to go. Just an exhale of breath and the ability to choose, and what she chooses is to write. She writes and writes and writes. Her voice coming through the walls quietly, spaces in between for silent editing. How did I get so lucky to be her mama? Why did God give me a writer? What a joy.