Sixty-three Year Old Widow Refused to Hide Her Gray Hair at Work

tugging at its red leash and sniffing at the fence posts. “Getting them in before the first hard frost, Martha?” she asked, her voice clear in the quiet afternoon air.

“Well, now,” I said, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist. “They need the cold to grow.”

“They do,” Clara said, her eyes lingering on my hair for a quiet second before she smiled.continue reading …