Mussuto & Hart — May 2026

Chris Hart and Claudine Mussuto traded art and words. Claudine shared this image, titled “white irises (2),” with Chris:

In response, Chris wrote this short story:

White Irises, Too

Learned some things. I did. Learned what you do and don’t do. At this time, in particular.
Can’t pass them things on. Like to. Can’t.

The kids come over to the house for fried chicken. We stand out back of the porch and
look at the garden. “Beans coming through there. Here. Right there. See?” I bend down,
pull on the vine, and my daughter Faye blocks the sun. “It’s settin’ up to be a good year
back here.”

My boy Ronnie says, “Uh huh,” and steps up to the wire edging. “Where’d them flowers
come from? They’re gonna be tall. What are they?”

“Those are mom’s. Don’t ask,” Faye says. When I turn around on my knees in the dirt to
stare up at her, she has that gentle look. Her dad used to get it, too. Settle, you. Settle:
That’s what his face would say to me. You keep your head on straight until later. Hold
up. I know you can.

I’ve got six rooms in my house. Seven if I count his old workshop. In every room now,
I’ve got Jackie’s plants. She left them to me. Jade plants. A prayer plant or two. This
ugly mister she called a string of pearls. Probably half a dozen pots with ivy – pretty
dried out but hanging on. And Jackie liked those little succulents. So I got a tray of
those.

“Are you a plant lady? No. But you’ll pick it up,” she said. “I want you to have ’em. Give
some to your children. Faye is good, isn’t she?”

Some Mexican man from the church brought them over after Jackie’s place sold. I was
helping to carry them in but I cracked a pot against my screen door. That danged
aluminum thing. But we cleaned up the mess and I handed him a 10 for his trouble.
Asked him, but he wouldn’t take any of the plants. Not one.

“No, no, we have enough,” he said, waving. “I thank you, though.”

Then Ronnie said no. Faye, the same. They don’t want that burden of care. They work
all the time. They’re gone all the time. That’s why I’ve got things to grow.

To me, it’s not a foolish question – what I’m to do with these new additions to my life.
Jackie, why? I’ll remember you anyway, hon. Don’t need things in pots to do that.

Don’t need things in the ground.

One of the last jobs she got done before she went into hospice was to dig up these fiber
pieces out of the garden under her picture window. She wrapped them in newspaper,
tied twine around the ends. At the end of my visit the one time, she said, “Here, take this
box. These ones are for outdoors. Before it gets into cold nights. Read about it.”

I said, “But my beans.”

“Oh, now! You’ve got plenty of room in that big plot.”

Ronnie and Faye like my chicken. And what I grow back there in that patch is usually
good. Those white flowers, lanky and drooping as they are, they’re nice, too. Up against
the short wall that runs between my house and Jackie’s.

Nobody else wants them – that’s what I learned. They say, She gave you them, and you
should keep them up.

So I do. And I keep my head on straight about it. Until later.

* * * * *

Chris shared this short story with Claudine:

I Remember He Talked Early

Circle above. Circle.

Circle, drop down. Flat gray top of the house trailer. Closer. Circle.

Snow in strips, bubbled snow, flecked in black. Pebbled and flashing in passing sun.

One cedar tree by the window. One place where grass is exposed, just one.

Milk box. Plant pot. Socks on the clothes line, socks and jammies and panties and rags. A wool plaid coat. The sleeve needs sewn.

The line wraps around the tree, doubles back, then jogs to the right to a bracket just below the bedroom window. Wind slaps the sagging line, flips it down and up. The line, wire in a plastic sheath, splitting in spots. Clothes pins have done some damage. Bleached clothes pins, propped along the line like birds. An apron, striped blue and pink, pasted to the snow. Forgot it out there all winter.

“Where’s your britches? Get your britches on.”

She talks, coughs. From the kitchen. From the other end.

“Find them. They’re just about here. Your cousin. Get your toys out.”

A black Impala pulls up. Circle high. Circle around to the side.

A kid in galoshes bumps out of the back seat. He’s at the door. Looks back at his mom.

“You can go in. Turn the handle.”

The little ones laugh and squeal. Crew cuts on big heads. Hard shoes, back and forth on the rug. Coats piled on the dark brown couch. A skinny dog, sprawled out, sighs and watches with a watery eye.

They play with wooden blocks, build roads and towns. Quiet then and getting along.

They listen to their moms talking, and talk, too.

“I betchu.”

“Uh uh. It ain’t.”

A smaller child stands on a chair in the front room. He’s in a diaper with a loose tab. The diaper hangs from his leg. Eyes back and forth between the others.

He turns around, looks out the picture window.

“There’s a boy.”

Everyone stops. They get up close and around and they hug him.

Snow starts.

In response, Claudine made this image, titled “there’s a boy-thought circling the line”:

(Click image to enlarge.)