Gemotions

The contractor’s truck crunched over the gravel, a sound that made Arthur’s jaw tighten. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, knuckles white against the denim. He watched them measure, assess, make their casual notes on clipboards. Years of memories, of laughter, of scraped knees and whispered secrets – all reduced to a line item in their ledger. A coldness settled in his stomach, spreading like a stain.

He remembered the porch swing, its rhythmic creak a constant soundtrack to his childhood. Now, it was stripped bare, lying forlornly on the overgrown lawn. He refused to look at it, focusing instead on a crack in the foundation, a tangible flaw to focus on. They wouldn’t see the ghost of his father out there, hammering away at a birdhouse, whistling a tuneless melody.

“You still here, old man?” the foreman, a young guy with a too-friendly smile, called out. Arthur just grunted in response, the word catching in his throat, a thick, unwelcome lump.