As I climbed the stairs yesterday grief followed me. I vote in a very old building way at the top of an old wooden grand staircase on the third floor.

My sister Maria and I always talked about local politics. She followed everything so closely. We'd watch the town meetings and talk about the discussions, the town council's facial expressions, the arguments over the issues.

After she died it was about six months before I could watch the local meetings. Another six before I could linger on the station long enough to understand what was happening.

Being in voting the room, waiting in line near the booth, brought back memories. Growing up, Mom always told us how lucky we were, how exciting it was to vote. She would bring me into the curtained little booth as she pulled levers and it all seemed like magic. Later she'd explain about our voices, how all our voices count, each and every one of us.

A voice. That's what got me. Another reminder of how my sister's voice wasn't here.

I started to cry on the drive home. Not in sadness but in the gentle side of grief getting me once again - to find my way to a kinder truth.

Her voice isn't gone. I can still hear it in my head, it whispers when I'm quiet enough to listen, on nights when my prayers are answered it comes in dreams. It tells me every thing is all right.