Gemotions

The old woman sat on her rocking chair, watching the neighborhood kids play in her yard. Her hands, gnarled with age, clutched a worn blanket. The scene was pleasant, but she felt a tightening in her chest.

Young Mr. Davies was at her doorstep. His request hung in the air: “Just a small patch, Mrs. Henderson, for some flowers. For my wife, you see.” He gestured with a hopeful smile. The old woman’s grip on the blanket tightened.

She thought of the years she had spent, working in the very soil, cultivating her own flowers, the vibrant colors a comfort. His request, a violation.

"No," she said, her voice raspy. "I do not wish for it." She watched him leave, feeling a curious satisfaction, a sense of having held something tightly, refusing to let go.