Her voice echoed through the room. I was suddenly comforted though saddened at once. Her voice had the power of sadness. It went into a higher pitch, smoothly. I was sad that week, and alone, and battling an external obstacle. I was almost ready to give up. I was going through hell, but as someone once told me, I had to keep going. There was no way out. My desperation was beyond explanation, and her voice got me through that night. I cried. I wanted to sing too. I wanted to fly towards the Brooklyn Bridge and forget my sorrow, forget the loneliness of being. Then I remembered. I wasn’t alone. I had new friends, people who cared, and asked me how I was everyday. I wasn’t alone. Her voice continued to rise. She was sitting in the kitchen, singing. It was dark out and maybe a little chilly. Fall beginning to finally set in. I didn’t know her well, but her voice comforted my tired soul. And she was alone too, but somehow I feel that she was okay with it, that through singing, she had found a way to comfort her soul. What could I comfort my soul with when my pen wouldn’t work? How could I save myself when I had nothing of my own to give? So I cried as I listened to her and hoped that one day I could find a way to be stronger in my soul.