Gemotions

The rhythmic click-clack of Eleanor's knitting needles filled the afternoon air. Her gaze drifted from her intricate pattern to the scene next door. Old Mr. Peterson's crabapple tree had finally given way, the heavy branches now sprawled over his rose garden. A smile played on her lips.

She paused her knitting, the yarn held loosely in her hand. The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She’d spent the morning baking a batch of her famous apple cinnamon scones. The aroma still lingered, a comforting embrace. She felt at ease, centered and grounded.