Gemotions

The sound of the power saw sliced through the otherwise quiet afternoon. I found myself cringing with each harsh cut. It was Mr. Petro, sawing through the old fence between our yards. He had talked of installing a new fence for months, but I hadn't truly grasped how disruptive it would be.

I watched him from my porch swing, the wood dust drifting in the air. The old fence, made of mismatched planks and faded paint, had always felt… friendly. I knew Mr. Petro's wife, a very frail woman, had fallen in the backyard last year, and I understood their concerns about safety.

I got up and walked over, offering a glass of lemonade and a plate of the fruit salad I had just made.