Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows, mimicking the length of the listlessness that had taken root in her. It was Mrs. Miller, always so cheerful, standing at her back door. "Lovely yard, dear," she said, her voice lilting. "Such a shame to see that space unused." Then came the gentle ask: could she plant a few vegetables?

It was a simple request, a gesture of neighborly kindness. But the suggestion felt like a rebuke. She’d let everything go, slowly unraveling, the garden a perfect mirror of her internal state. A hesitant nod was her reply.

She retreated, hearing the scrape of a shovel in the dirt. Her own hands, she knew, were unused to that. She sank into her armchair and stared out the window.