Gemotions

The tremor in Martha’s hands was almost imperceptible as she watered her prize-winning rose bushes. The petition, the one Mr. Henderson had slid under her door this morning, lay heavy in her pocket. A fence. He wanted to put up a fence. It felt like a physical weight pressing on her chest, stealing her breath.

She pruned a particularly delicate bloom, snipping the stem with deliberate slowness. The scent of the roses, usually a source of such joy, felt cloying today, almost suffocating. She imagined the concrete posts, the stark, unforgiving wood, dividing her garden, the air already feeling chillier than it did.

The rustle of leaves was loud in her ears, each whisper amplifying the anxieties that gnawed at her. She tightened her grip on the pruning shears, knuckles white. The thought of losing the gentle flow of air and light between her yard and Henderson's was agonizing.