As I glanced past the lit Christmas tree in the window, I could see endless rain pouring down and splashing into the large puddles that now filled the road outside my grandparents’ home. I shivered slightly and turned back to watch my grandmother sharpening her pencils with a razor blade and unpacking her watercolor paints and paintbrushes from their special travel box. She was wearing a loose lambswool cardigan that covered the top of her long, gently patterned skirt. Her lightly permed white hair was combed carefully across her head. I moved from the sofa to stand closer to her armchair and watched her rearrange the flower bouquet that she was commissioned to paint for her neighbor. I could smell a mix of the familiar waft of her Chanel N°5 perfume and the gentle but evident odor of her watercolors, but I couldn’t pick out any flowery smells. I looked at the painting, which was nearly complete, and saw her penciled signature at the bottom. It read “B.E. Cartwright” in beautiful printing. The “B.E.” stood for Barbara Eileen, although everyone called her Bobby