Gemotions

The realtor’s assistant, a fresh-faced young woman, offered a bottle of water. I shook my head, unable to speak. The sun beat down, turning the asphalt to molten. Sweat trickled down my spine. The air itself felt thick, suffocating.

I remembered the scent of my grandmother’s lavender bushes, the way the sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. She had loved this house, poured her heart into it. Now, it was just another property, another building to be torn down. I closed my eyes, a wave of nausea washing over me.

They were going to replace everything. My grandfather's tools would be thrown out, and my grandmother's garden, which I swore I would keep, was going to be ripped up to make way for a new building. I couldn't bear to look anymore.