Gemotions

The slow, methodical weeding of the garden was his therapy. Each pull, each gentle tug, was a release. The earth yielded easily to his touch, the scent of damp soil filling his nostrils. The vibrant green of the plants was a feast for the eyes. The sun warmed his back.

He heard the crunch of Coach Miller’s shoes on the gravel path. He didn’t look up immediately. He continued to work, feeling the sun's warmth on his skin. Finally, he straightened up, the weeds held loosely in his hand.

“John, can we talk?” Coach Miller asked.

“Yes, Coach.”