Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

my apron.

“He looks smaller, Mom,” she said, her voice shaking just a bit as she watched the driveway. “He is not wearing his coat.”

“Go on now,” I said.

I walked into the kitchen and stood by the sink, my hands resting on the edge of the porcelain where the white glaze had worn down to the grey metal beneath. The clock on the wall showed continue reading …