Gemotions

The crisp autumn air nipped at Clara’s cheeks as she pruned her roses. The old, gnarled birch stood, half on her property, half on Mr. Abernathy’s. She heard the crunch of gravel as he approached, his face a picture of sheepishness.

He began his spiel about the leaves clogging his gutters and the potential for a branch to fall during a winter storm. She snipped a thorny stem, enjoying the clean snap.

His voice trailed off. He waited for a response. Clara surveyed her meticulously kept garden, the vibrant colours a stark contrast to the rapidly browning leaves of the birch.

She leaned in close to her roses, inhaling their faint fragrance. "I was thinking the same thing, Mr. Abernathy," she announced, her voice soft but firm. Her fingers traced the delicate petals. “It’s about time.” A warm current flowed through her, a comfortable sense of ease.