Gemotions

The farmer’s market bustled with activity. Sarah’s stall, usually a vibrant display of her homemade jams and jellies, felt small and inadequate today. She clutched her hands tightly in front of her. At the stall across from her, a sign proclaimed “Grandma Rose’s Raspberry Rhubarb Jam,” a jam that looked suspiciously like hers. The colors matched and the labels were almost too similar.

The air around her seemed to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. She noticed a woman tasting the jam, her eyes widening in appreciation. The woman then bought a jar. Sarah forced a smile to her face, a shallow, tight thing that did little to ease the tightening in her chest.

She busied herself rearranging her jars, making tiny adjustments, pretending to be occupied. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm against the easy chatter of the market. She suddenly wished she could disappear.