Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

nodding slightly in the breeze from the street.

“The woman at the nursery said it would do well on a west-facing sill,” Evelyn said.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the pot.

The plastic was cool and damp, and a small bit of black soil spilled onto my thumb.

“Are you still unpacking?” she asked.

“Clara is helping,” I said.

Evelyn checked her wristwatch, her thumb continue reading …