Gemotions

The morning sun warmed my face as I opened the front door. There was Mr. Abernathy, standing sheepishly by the fence, clutching a crumpled piece of paper. He cleared his throat. "About the oak," he began, his voice barely audible. "The squirrels, the leaves... it's a lot of work." He wanted it gone.

Inside, my heart felt buoyant. I imagined the extra sunlight I would get. But the image of his tired face, the tremor in his hands, was more compelling. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Abernathy," I replied. "I'll sign whatever you need." I took a deep breath, and I felt a sense of relief wash over me. I needed to run to the store; perhaps I'd buy some flowers to brighten his porch.