Gemotions

Sunlight spilled across the dusty attic, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. The old grandfather clock stood sentinel in the corner, its pendulum frozen. Michael followed his father, his steps slow and deliberate, toward the object of their impending sale: his grandfather’s war medals, glinting dully in the dim light. He’d only seen them once, when he was small, and now they were to be sold. He felt a lump forming in his throat as his father pulled the velvet-lined box from a trunk. He wanted to touch them, to feel the weight of history in his hands, but he couldn't bring himself to intrude on the quiet ceremony of their removal.