Gemotions

The light in the living room was dim, the blinds drawn against the harsh glare of the midday sun. A tap on the window. It was old Mr. Abernathy, his wrinkled face peering in. He pointed to the small unused patch of lawn bordering his property, a patch that was, in my mind, just grass.

He mouthed words I couldn't hear. I opened the window.

"I can't hear you," I shouted.

He repeated his question, louder this time. A garden.

I nodded. He grinned, and I closed the window again, returning to my book.