When I heard she was dying, I called her and her voice was so weak. She said, “How’re you?” I said, “I’m fine.” I was going to complain about how hard it was to get work and to work consistently but it seemed too small now. “How are you?” I asked. “I’m angry.” Silence. “Tell me what you’re angry at, Danitra.” I just wanted her to talk. Her voice was so weak and raspy. The cancer had spread and there was nothing the doctors could do. She was dying. “I’m angry at this. I’m angry about dying.” “Danitra, I’m so sorry.” “I know. I love you. I’m tired. I gotta go.”
