The boxes collected from the nearby beach towns of Jersey or from Coney Island or maybe even Seneca Falls are not her voice raging with life and insistence on the work of expression.
Nor are they her hand that last year of life seeking and yearning for someone to hold it.
These boxes are not even her gorgeous explosive silver and white hair that to the very end kept singing her indefatigable lust for attempting once more something of promise.
