Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air as the young man from next door knocked at the door. He seemed awkward, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He shuffled from foot to foot.

"Mr. Peterson, is it?" I asked, opening the door.

He mumbled his confirmation.

“I… I was wondering…” he stammered, avoiding eye contact. He was a new homeowner, and I knew how much effort a house and yard required.

I leaned against the doorframe, a sense of… something… washing over me.

"My wife," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "she… she has been sick, but she has not lost the will to live." He looked up, his eyes meeting mine for a moment. "She loves to garden, but the space…”

I thought of my own wife. I understood his worry.

“...We can't grow anything," he finished, his voice now flat. “Not anymore.” He looked at the perfect manicured lawn.

My own garden was overflowing with vegetables. "How much space do you need?"