absorbing alma 's effortless grace , kane morphed with his guitar to let it sing his every thought- the slight curve of her spine , vertebrae by vertebrae , streaking down her back from a billow of floral-scented chestnut hair to her ambrosial femininity hiding beneath the hand-stitched quilt , with a scent that can only be described as alma , the slow draws of her sweet-breathing harmony , the ever-wrenching melancholia of a woman in sorrow , wishing to bring her back , to reignite her hope with a child inside her that will recreate her will to endure .