Gemotions

The sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. I held the list, his list, aloft, the flimsy paper a stark contrast to the weight of the knowledge it contained. He was in the garden, meticulously pruning his roses, convinced he possessed an unmatched green thumb.

"Plant a rose garden," it read. He already *had* a rose garden, albeit a rather pathetic one compared to the lush, vibrant display I had cultivated for years. I knew precisely which varieties thrived, which fertilizers worked best. My lips curved slightly.

Next, "Speak fluent Italian." Oh, the irony. He’d always mocked my attempts, calling my pronunciation “quaint.” The quiet self-satisfaction of my superior comprehension warmed me. I would never have to mention it.