Gemotions

The wind howled all night, and in the morning, the worst had happened. Old Man Fitzwilliam's beloved silver birch had succumbed, falling directly onto his greenhouse. The poor man loved his plants. I was there in minutes.

He was sitting on his porch, staring blankly at the wreckage. I could tell he was heartbroken. I gently cleared my throat, not wanting to startle him.

"Mr. Fitzwilliam?" I asked softly, stepping closer. "Can I help?" He looked up, and his usually bright eyes were clouded with grief. He just nodded slowly.

I spent the day with him. I helped clear the broken glass, catalogued what plants could be saved, and stayed with him while he slowly began to accept the loss.