Gemotions

The email arrived late, detailing the new regulations. No more lawns. Only native plants. The email from the HOA was dry and impersonal. Then, a knock. It was old Mr. Peterson. His face was weathered, his hands calloused. He was asking if he could use a small part of her yard for his flowers.

She had seen him often, tending to the small flower boxes on his porch. His smile was always warm, a little beacon of light in their quiet street. Her heart squeezed. "Mr. Peterson, of course," she said, opening the gate. "And please, call me Emily. I always thought your flowers were beautiful."