Caucasian female, with long, pale red hair and pleasant smile, switching around two oversized art pieces with some difficulty. The book sits page down on a red stool, it's cover instantly recognizable.
For One More Day, Mitch Albom, Hyperion
Folded over, near the beginning:
She was wearing blue slacks and a white sweater now—she was always dressed, it seemed, no matter how early in the morning—and she looked to be no older than the last time I had seen her, on her seventy-ninth birthday, wearing these red-rimmed glasses she got as a present. She turned her palms gently upward and she beckoned me with her eyes and, I don't know, those glasses, her skin, her hair, her opening the back door the way she used to when I threw tennis balls off the roof of our house.Their first Easter she stayed offside, her jobs limited to placing the cutlery and running the sweeper once around the table. She lit some candles and poured a glass of wine, on her second by the time family started to arrive, keeping tight and tidy to the end of a couch she'd occupied day in and out for months, playing cards, watching television, adjusting hips and elbows for comfort.
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