Gemotions

The insistent hammering next door had been going on for hours. It stopped. Then, the polite knock. I slowly turned from the window.

It was Mr. Olsen, his eyes bright, face flushed. He carried a small trowel in his hands.

"Morning, Michael," he started. "Wonderful garden." He gestured toward my pristine lawn.

My jaw clenched as I felt the tightness in my chest. "Yes?" I replied, my voice clipped.

"I was wondering…" He began, "If maybe I could… plant something…" My vision sharpened.

His words hung in the air. The smell of freshly cut grass filled my nostrils. The details of his face seemed to pop out. "A garden," I repeated, the word sounding foreign. I found myself scrutinizing the placement of the garden gnomes on my neighbor's lawn.