Sarafina said her face was once on the side of a milk carton. She ran away from a girls' home in Cali claiming the director made repeated advances.
Sarafina carried her guitar everywhere; on her back to the boardwalk by the Mississippi, to Check Point Charlie's and to her squat in the 8th ward. I often found her playing and singing on a stoop by my front door, which opened onto Decatur Street. She had a delicate, lilting voice with a baseline of grit and determination. She is a mother now. I think she will be a good one.