Catherine

The old woman was round.
"You could have drawn her with a compass," a neighbour had once remarked.
Her body was round. Her face was round. Her hands and mouth and eyes were round, though a compass could never have captured the sharp glint that lit them.
"I remember her scent more than anything," another had said. "Eau de Cologne. It reamed off of her. The entire house fumed with it, the kitchen, the curtains, the couches. She must have gone through gallons of the stuff before she died."
She had died naturally, if you can call the slow shutting down of the liver over a lifetime of heavy drinking a natural death.
"She was a strong old thing for someone with so many weaknesses," her half-nephew mused, "the grog mastered her for some fifty years. That's a long time to be mastered by anything."