Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Mrs. Gable from next door knocked at the screen door, a nervous flutter in her voice. Clara, mid-way through washing the supper dishes, dried her hands and opened the door. Mrs. Gable's eyes were red-rimmed.

"Clara, dear, I was hoping…" she began, her voice trailing off. She clutched a gardening catalogue to her chest, the pages already starting to curl.

Clara gestured towards the porch swing. "Come on in, Mrs. Gable. What's on your mind?" She felt a sudden tightening in her chest, a sympathetic thrum of worry.

Mrs. Gable sat, carefully smoothing the catalogue on her lap. "My back garden, you know, it's just… it's not what it used to be. The sun's all wrong now, blocked by that new oak in the Petersons’ yard." She looked at Clara with a pleading expression. "I was wondering, if, maybe, I could use a small patch of your west side for a vegetable garden?"

Clara found herself thinking of her late husband. He’d loved his tomatoes. "Of course, dear," she said, her voice soft. "Take as much as you need."