She knocked on my door, wisdom piled high atop her head – a platinum swirl of ice cream melted into a few loose curls. From my picture window, I could also see her pristine 1950’s-robin-egg-blue convertible parked at the curb. I couldn’t help imagining her holding an outdated suitcase full of Tupperware. Afraid that my inner monologue might be smeared across my face, I kept my eyes down as I opened the door. I wasn’t surprised by the sensible patent leather shoes that stood before me, but the stifling scent of cherry cigars and my Aunt Shirley’s Chantilly perfume snapped my head back like rollercoaster whiplash.
That’s when I beheld Rose for the first time in all her contradictory splendor. Her wool suit spoke of work at the rectory while the cigar hanging lazily from the corner her mouth rivaled all the gentility of Al Capone.