Gemotions

The air smelled of freshly cut grass, a scent that typically filled Margaret with a sense of duty, a need to prune and perfect. Today, however, she simply sat on the porch swing, watching the butterflies flit through the flowerbeds.

A knock at the gate. It was Mr. Evans, her next-door neighbor, clutching a watering can. He looked anxious.

“Margaret, hello. I… I’m terribly sorry to bother you.” His voice was apologetic.

Margaret watched him, the rhythmic creak of the swing a counterpoint to the rustling leaves.

“My cucumbers…” he began, his voice hesitant. “They’re not doing well at all. I was wondering if…” He trailed off, gesturing towards her meticulously maintained vegetable patch.

Margaret felt a curious lack of motivation. Without a word, she gestured towards a portion of the garden. He seemed relieved. A smile touched his lips.