![]() By then her breathing had returned to normal, but our shared world felt fragile. Our doctor ordered an MRI, and the specialist reported a “crushed-glass pattern” on her lungs. ![]() The episode lasted for weeks and didn’t ease with medication. Some weeks before-amid global pandemic anxiety- my partner’s asthma had flared. As I stood there, I wondered how I’d handle this chore if she died. My partner connected the coop to the mower like it was second nature, like she had no fear that the chain would come undone, that the mower would get stuck in a rut, that our coop would topple. ![]() Our coop was on wheels and every week we moved it so that our laying hens would have access to new forage. ![]() There, my partner knelt in the wet grass as she attached our chicken coop to our riding mower with a pull chain. One Saturday in April, I left breakfast on the counter for my children, stepped into my chore boots, and opened the gate to the back pasture. ![]()
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