Gemotions

Rain splattered against the kitchen window, mirroring the dull ache in Eleanor's chest. Mrs. Gable, all bright smiles and floral sundresses, had knocked, her voice a chipper melody against the gloomy day. Now, standing on the stoop, Mrs. Gable was gesturing expansively at the barren strip of lawn between their houses, requesting permission to till it for a vegetable patch. Eleanor’s jaw tightened. She mumbled something about “thinking about it,” and quickly retreated, pulling the blinds closed against the unwelcome sunlight. The thought of Mrs. Gable’s exuberant presence, and the potential for shared garden harvests, felt like an insurmountable weight.