Gemotions

“Take a pottery class.” Liam scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. His grandmother, a woman who considered a slightly burned scone a catastrophe, had scribbled these words in shaky script. He tossed the list onto the kitchen table, the paper landing with a soft thud. He just wanted to get it over with, to move on.

The house felt too quiet, too empty. He started to pace. There was a mountain of legal documents to sort, accounts to close, memories to bury. The thought of all of it made his head pound. He grabbed a cup and poured himself a large glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glass. He downed it quickly.