It was just shy of noon when dark voluminous clouds began weaving across the sky like textile being laced through a loom. Winds had started picking up, suggesting another storm was encroaching.
Some voices didn"t age; some did. Carmie"s mother"s sounded like centuries-old vellum. The New Jersey accent sounded even more tired. It was as if the joy of life had been syphoned from the woman like gas from an Edsel.
I offered condolences, for which she expressed gratitude.
“Did you know my daughter long?”
“Long enough to recognize that she was a caring and gracious person.”
“That"s—that was my Carmelita. …How about her husband?”
“I didn"t know him as well as I did Carmie.” It was a little white lie, but one that might bring favor and, subsequently, additional information.
“I want my daugh
