Gemotions

The old dog, Buster, nudged Emily’s hand with his wet nose, seeking a scratch behind the ears. She obliged, the familiar contact grounding her. The rhythmic thrum of the washing machine, the scent of fresh laundry, the contented sighs of the dog – the sounds and smells of home always filled her with a sense of peace. Her sister's conversion to Scientology had been a surprise, but not a disaster.

She sat in the old armchair, her fingers tangled in Buster's fur. The world seemed still. It was easy to relax and focus on the moment, to let go of any need to rush, to solve, to worry.

She smiled and continued to rub the dog's ears.