Gemotions

From his workshop, filled with the aroma of freshly cut wood, Charles could hear the soft whir of his son, Sam’s, electric sander. He leaned back in his chair, a half-finished wooden bird carving resting in his hands, and smiled. The afternoon light streamed through the dusty windows, illuminating swirling dust motes. The rhythmic tapping of his own carving chisel echoed in the quiet space. He’d spent countless hours perfecting his craft, a solitary pursuit for many years. Now, his son, usually so hyper, was completely absorbed, meticulously shaping a small wooden duck.