Gemotions

He watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight slicing through the kitchen window. The tap, tap, tap of his neighbor’s cane on the pavement outside had been a constant companion for years. Now, Mr. Henderson was standing at his back gate, his weathered face etched with a hopeful plea. "Just a little space, you see. For some herbs, maybe a few tomatoes. My back just isn't what it used to be."

He ran a hand across his beard, feeling the scratchy stubble against his palm. Time, like the seasons, marched relentlessly forward. He had tried growing things once, years ago. The memory of the vibrant, thriving plants that had eventually been neglected, wilting in the summer heat, brought an ache to his core.

He took a slow breath, the air thick with the scent of brewing coffee. The silence was deafening, the only sounds the whir of the fridge and the distant buzz of a lawnmower. He had been so young then. Now the world had changed. He thought of the small patch of earth behind his own house.

"Alright, Mr. Henderson," he finally said, his voice softer than he'd intended. "You can have it."