Gemotions

The rhythmic clack of the loom echoed through the house, a sound Sarah knew intimately. Weaving had been her solace, her meditation, for years. Now, her son, Ben, was producing his own elaborate tapestries, his fingers flying across the warp and weft with astonishing speed. She saw his quiet concentration, the way his tongue would peek out from between his lips when he was engrossed in a particularly complex pattern. She understood the satisfaction of creating something beautiful from raw materials. She offered him the finest threads from her collection, and then, on a whim, started making him tea every afternoon.