Gemotions

“The sycamore’s roots are cracking my patio, Eleanor.” Mr. Henderson's voice was a low rumble, filled with a rehearsed patience that grated on Eleanor’s nerves.

Eleanor was in her gardening shed, knee-deep in soil, her hands smeared with dirt. The sycamore, that magnificent behemoth, was one of her oldest friends. The cool shade it provided on hot summer days. The rustling dance of the leaves in the wind.

She looked up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Well, that patio is quite old."

"And the leaves clog my gutters," he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. He had a whole list of complaints.

Her hands tightened around her trowel. She wouldn’t budge. She dug the trowel more firmly into the soil. She began to hum a tuneless melody, deliberately avoiding his gaze. The roots? The leaves? It was all part of the charm.