Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

for another hour, the only sound the soft scrape of the trowel and the steady drip of the water lines in the main house.

“Your father always said the roots need room to breathe,” Donald said, his voice low.

“Well now, he was right about that,” I said.

We finished the last of the red clay pots and lined them up on the cedar bench. They continue reading …