Gemotions

It wasn't the fancy car, but the *absence* of something. Mr. Davies, the quiet man who lived across the street, used to spend hours tending his garden. Then, suddenly, he stopped. The flowers died. The weeds grew. The house became a shell of its former self.

I learned he'd sold a company for an obscene amount of money. He seemed smaller, somehow, less present.

I brought over a few gardening tools and asked if I could help him out. He looked at me, a flicker of something in his eyes, and then nodded. The silence between us felt like a chasm.