Gemotions

She adjusted the microphone, a faint hum traveling up her arm. The sea of faces in front of her blurred slightly. This was supposed to be a happy occasion, celebrating her father’s years of service, but all she could focus on was the way the fabric of her dress clung to her skin. Her legs felt restless beneath the table.

“Dad,” she started, her voice a little breathless. Her father, a man of quiet strength, offered a small, encouraging nod. The room seemed to shrink, the noise receding as she spoke. She thought about his hands, calloused from years of work, and how he used them to build her treehouse when she was a child. A tingling sensation traced down her spine.

She talked about his unwavering support, his quiet wisdom. She described the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the podium. She felt a flush rising in her cheeks.