Gemotions

"Imagine," Delia said to herself, pulling at a loose thread on her sweater. It was Ms. Albright, a new resident, who had the unmitigated gall to approach her. It wasn’t a casual chat. It was a request. A demand in the form of a request.

"Your yard," Ms. Albright had begun, her voice like sandpaper. “So much space.” Delia’s eyebrows shot up.

She felt a hollowness in her stomach. Ms. Albright, clearly, did not understand the hours, the sweat, the love that went into maintaining her property. She clenched her jaw. Delia considered simply shutting the door in the woman's face.

"I was thinking," Ms. Albright went on, "a small flower bed." Delia felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to plant weeds.