Gemotions

The shovel struck something hard, a metallic thunk in the otherwise soft soil. The gardener, Mrs. Gable, called to him from across the yard. “Find anything, Mr. Davies?”

He knelt, brushing away the dirt. A rectangular tin, painted a faded blue. He worked the shovel around it, then pulled it free. He brushed off the dirt, revealing the words “Class of ’98” scrawled across the top in faded marker.

He didn't bother to open it immediately. He leaned the shovel against a tree and stretched his back, the muscles protesting with a low ache. He thought about the upcoming grocery trip, the leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom. He went inside for a glass of water.