About the work

The watering can was a gift for his first wife, before they had children, before the house, before the second wife and all these children. He'd bought it at an antique fair, a real bargain, he thought, for something so sturdy and beautiful. She’d loved it, used it to water her prize-winning orchids, which were gone now, too. Sometimes, late at night, he still sees the faint sheen of water droplets on the copper, catching the light from the kitchen window. The watering can has outlasted two marriages, three dogs, and countless summer holidays. It’s strange, though, how much the children want to be like her.