Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

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He picked up the small wooden trowel, the handle worn smooth by my father’s palms, and laid it beside the potting tray.

“Do you want me to carry the heavy crates to the north bench?” he asked.

“I can take the small ones,” I said, lifting a tray of twelve pots without the old, burning ache in my wrists. “My strength is coming back a little more each continue reading …