Gran Frances use to carry the aroma of roses and vanilla hibiscus hand cream into every room with her, much like the satchel of dried lavender tucked away into the pockets of her floral skirts. Her wrinkled fingers were always adorned with gold rings, not silver, and her nails were always painted something bright and cheerful. Her house could have been considered small, and compared to the garden it was, but it had been my world. My groggy mornings, my sweet afternoons, and my sleepless nights. There wasn't much she left, but there was the front door key.