by Anton Rose

Which ones are weeds, she says. The ones that take up too much space, he says. The ones that aren’t supposed to be there.

When he leaves for work she begins by throwing the fork and spade away. She takes off the gloves, stuffs them in her pockets. She scoops and pulls, lifts and tugs. The soil is damp and cool beneath her fingernails.

When he returns he sees a mound of green, with white and pink and blue. A square of brown earth, unoccupied. She doesn’t speak, just holds out her muddy hands, the palms full of seeds.

Anton lives in Durham, U.K. He writes fiction and poetry while working on a PhD in Theology, all fueled by numerous cups of tea. Find him at antonrose.com or @antonjrose