Gemotions

The afternoon light cast long shadows, mirroring the length of Clara's despair. She sat on her porch steps, the unread newspaper lying beside her. The sound of someone approaching made her flinch, and she stared at the cracked concrete.

It was Mr. Peterson, the man from next door. He looked cheerful, a spade in his hand. “Clara, good afternoon! I was hoping…” His words faded as he assessed her state.

Clara just looked at him, her gaze vacant. The request, for a small area in her backyard for a garden, felt like an insurmountable hurdle. She closed her eyes, the sun feeling too bright.

She could only manage a small nod. The effort of the movement left her feeling profoundly weary.