My mother likes a man who works. She likes my husband’s muddy knees, grass stains on the cuffs. She loved my father, though when weekends came he’d sleep till nine and would not lift his eyes up from the page to move the feet she’d vacuum under. On Saturdays my husband digs the holes for her new roses, softening the clay with peat and compost. He changes bulbs she can no longer reach and understands the inside of her toaster. My father’s feet would carry him from chair to bookshelf, back again till Monday came. My mother likes to tell my husband sit down in this chair and put your feet up. Pauletta Hansel