Gemotions

The invitation sat on Amelia's fridge, held in place by a magnet shaped like a smiling sun. It was her mother's retirement party, and she, of course, was asked to speak. She ran a hand over the cool ceramic, its familiar shape a comfort. This morning, the chirping birds outside her window sounded particularly vibrant.

She decided to bake a cake. The rhythm of the whisk against the bowl, the gentle bloom of flour in the air, soothed her. She hummed a wordless tune as she carefully layered the frosting.

Later, she sat in the garden, bathed in the warmth of the afternoon sun. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak tree, and she closed her eyes, letting the light warm her face. The upcoming speech didn't bother her.