By six that evening, the sun hung low over the tall yellow pines behind our apartment building.

Yellow pine pollen lay like a thick layer of dust over the hood of my car and down the outdoor stairwells.

Helen stood at the kitchen counter when I came in the front door, peeling yellow potatoes into a red plastic bowl.

She rinsed her hands under the faucet, rubbing the stiff knuckles of her left hand with her right thumb while the cold water ran.

Years and years of cleaning houses had left her joints aching worse every time it rained.