Gemotions

The chain link fence, gleaming silver and cold, was almost complete. It replaced the old wooden one that had been there for years, the one that had held the jasmine vines and welcomed the squirrels.

Across the yard, I saw Mr. Ito, a man I rarely spoke with, meticulously cleaning his tools. His face was a mask, unreadable. I remembered the late nights in the neighborhood.

I decided to leave him alone and walked back in my house, picking up a pen and paper. I started on a card, writing about the welcome home baskets his family would bring home.