Blanche sat in a faded, floral wingback chair facing the window in her room. Her head was bowed and eyes closed, her hands folded in her lap as though in prayer. Nearly white brows knit together and even whiter hair was pulled loosely back in a bun; her lower lip protruded slightly as she exhaled soft puffs of air. The puffs became more pronounced, rousing Blanche from her catnap. She gazed out of the window, waiting for her eyes to focus on the Maple which comprised most of her view. It was a grey day. The tree limbs seemed bolder rather than shrouded by the mid-morning mist. Buds were beginning…