Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

gravel path that led to the glass houses.

Donald was out there, walking between the rows with a wooden flat under his arm.

His shadow was long on the gravel, stretching toward the back gate.

He was sixty-six years old, and for a few weeks, he had believed he was going to be left in this big house alone.

I could see the line of his shoulders under his brown continue reading …