Washing Spinach by Emily Green

Leaves tremble-- limp and fragile but vivid green against the crimson colander. She turns them in her hand. Thin, anxious fingers frantically making work.

His aunt mashes potatoes with a restrained thud. Years of practice. No help needed, thank you.

His sisters build the green bean casserole. A team effort. Three pairs of hands, always three.

His mom preps the bird. Innards wrenched out; stuffing jammed in. A raw, visceral affair. Better left alone.

“You can wash the spinach."

The colander slips from her fingers. The leaves spill over. Crumpled greenery on sleek aluminum. No matter. She is by the sink. They are at the table.

She gathers the spinach, fingers leisurely plucking at the mess, loosening in the sanctuary of solitude.

She washes the spinach again.


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