Gemotions

The clatter of dishes was a distant memory. Sarah leaned back against the porch swing, the rhythmic motion a soothing balm. She watched the sunset paint the sky in fiery hues, the colors reflecting off the windows of the houses.

Her neighbor, Mr. Davis, hurried over, a look of distress on his face. He spoke about the sycamore tree’s overhanging branches and the damage he feared.

She closed her eyes, letting the breeze caress her skin. The swing creaked gently.

When he finished, she opened her eyes. "You know," she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper, "I was thinking the exact same thing." The world felt settled, perfect. The swing’s motion seemed to amplify the feeling.