Her scent arrived first. Francis Denney’s Interlude. Delicate at the start, then coming to rest like a swaddle, a heavy musky balm, felt more than smelled. Next a tender clinking sound. Seashells? Wind chimes? No. Broken and mismatched rosary beads, dangling from wrists and waist. She bustled in with a casserole of course. Chicken and rice. And two old fashioneds, orange wedges and maraschinos on their colorful plastic skewers. (Sigh.) And she brought all of the pieces of self, abandoned…
