Gemotions

The old woman from next door, Agnes, stood on my porch, her frame bent with age, her face drawn with worry. She clutched a worn wicker basket to her chest.

“Dearie,” she began, her voice raspy. “The squirrels… they’ve been feasting on my tomatoes again.”

I felt a sudden, sharp pang. I knew how precious that garden was to her.

She gestured towards the fence that divided our properties. Her own garden was small, and I knew she was on a fixed income.

"I can't seem to get enough sun," she lamented.

I, in turn, looked at my garden, which was doing quite well. "I was wondering if I could… use just a bit to plant my vegetables.”

I found myself wanting to smooth away the creases of her worry. “Come on in,” I said, opening the door wider. “Let’s take a look. We can figure something out."