Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

on the thick yellow rubber gloves, grateful for the barrier they put between the harsh dish soap and the deep, painful splits in my cuticles. Through the window above the sink, the backyard was a gray blur under the rising autumn mist.

Donald stood beside me with a linen dish towel, waiting for the first clean plate.

“Robert is trying,” Donald said, continue reading …