Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn as Mrs. Gable from next door knocked. Her usually bright eyes seemed softened, a little wistful. "Harold," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "I was wondering... if I could maybe use a corner of your yard for a small vegetable patch. Just a little one."

A tightness constricted Harold’s chest. He looked at the expanse of green, the swing set his children had outgrown years ago, the faded basketball hoop. He swallowed hard.

"Of course, Martha," he croaked, the words thick with something he couldn't name. He gestured towards the fence. “Use whatever you need. Honestly, I hardly ever tend it anymore.” His fingers traced the edge of the worn wooden fence, remembering the countless games of catch played there, the scraped knees, the joyous laughter that once echoed through the air.