Gemotions

The willow, belonging to the recently-arrived Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, had succumbed to the storm. It took down a chunk of the fence and, more significantly, landed right across my freshly painted bird bath, smashing it to pieces. I gritted my teeth.

I’d tried to be friendly, welcoming the Johnsons to the neighborhood. Offered them homemade cookies, even offered some gardening tips. Now, they were on their porch, gazing at the wreckage, and acting as if they didn't even notice my house.

The silence coming from their direction was more irritating than the storm itself. They were huddled together, talking in hushed tones, their expressions unreadable. I waited for an apology, a gesture, anything.

Then, they turned, and went back inside, leaving the mess unattended. I was left to survey the damage, and the resounding absence of any acknowledgment.