She has a pasty face and a begrudging smile.

Sometimes I wonder about the fuchsia flowers on my neighbor's tree. They remind me of my grandma Mary. The pungent perfume makes my stomach turn over; I tend to purse my lips in repugnance when I pass by them. I see her tablecloths, clothes, and bedsheets in those flowers. I hear her laughter and the rough edge of her buttery voice in the smell.