Gemotions

The thrumming of the circular saw finally ceased. Across the street, Mrs. Gable emerged from her house, wiping sawdust from her brow. She surveyed the newly erected porch frame with a satisfied nod. It was a beautiful thing, built entirely by her own hands. She’d always been a woman of ideas, but seldom of action. Now, the proof of her capabilities stood solid and square.

She called out, her voice carrying easily on the afternoon breeze, "Anyone need a hand with the next beam?"

The two young men she’d enlisted, barely more than kids, scrambled to assist. Watching them, she felt a warmth bloom in her chest, a sense of rightness, that she had previously reserved for her prize-winning petunias. She had built this. She was building this.