I should've done something, anything, to express a hint of acknowledgment, yet I couldn't. I was stunned and startled, in complete awe over her ability to write something so profound about skin of all things. And then there was the mention of—I'm assuming here—me, and that shook my heart so much, I looked beyond the mention of God. She had written something about me. Was it possible that I'd haunted her as much as she'd inadvertently haunted me?
