There were photos of him, however. Alone and with her. On the piano, on the mantle, on the table next to his iced tea. They were very much in love. “Do you play the piano?” I asked him, since the key door was raised, leaving them exposed. Waiting for. "Oh God, no! He was the creator in every way." Again, the chime laughs on the scale and vice versa. “Well, I could play some pretty mean chopsticks.” We shared a laugh together. It was an incredibly profound moment in its lightness. No consequence, and yet I would never find a way to thank her for it. The afternoon had become comfortably warm, and with the heat came an increasing mix of scents. Powder, lineament and just a soft whisper of lilac. A whisper that would swell momentarily if a breeze blew through the window. She breathed deeply each time, as if it was this perfume that sustained her.