My husband is not dead, but he is close to it. He drops things, abutting his feet—they nearly destroy what keeps him standing. Hammer and auger, flat sewer rod, plunger, plumber’s torch, pipe wrench, hacksaw.  He squeezes his 6-foot, 200-pound frame in a cupboard, under our sink. The drain is clogged. “It’s your hair,” he says. “It sits here until… Read more →