Historical fiction · Set in
Snow at the greenhouse door
The drift was halfway up the greenhouse door this morning. I pushed from inside while somebody on the other side dug with a coal shovel. We could hear each other well enough through the door to disagree about which way it opened.
Once we got it free, a slab of snow slid off the roof and landed square across the path we’d just made. We stood there a minute, each hoping the other would pick up the shovel. Then we cleared just enough room to get a flat of pots through.
Inside, my glasses fogged over and I set the flat down on the wrong bench. I left it there until I could see. Outside, the wind was already filling in our footprints.