Gemotions

The aroma of freshly mown grass mingled with the metallic tang of the lawn mower, creating a familiar summer scent. Old Mr. Finch, his face flushed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, shuffled over to the fence separating our yards. The birch tree, its bark peeling attractively, was what he came about.

He leaned heavily on his cane. “This tree… it’s become… quite a problem for my rose bushes, you see.” He gestured feebly towards his prize-winning roses, now shaded by the extended branches.

I walked over. His face was creased with lines of worry, his eyes pleading. I knew how much those roses meant to him, how he spent hours tending to them.

“Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Finch?” I suggested, guiding him towards a nearby bench. “Let’s talk about it.”