Gemotions

He’d driven three hours, the familiar landscape sliding past his window like a cherished photo album. He pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires. The house looked smaller than he remembered, nestled beneath the towering pines. A slow smile spread across his face.

The demolition order had come weeks ago, but he’d waited until the last possible moment to return. He wanted to be present for the end. He popped the trunk and retrieved a worn camera from inside. He remembered every room.

He walked around the house, taking photographs. The sun warmed his back. He lingered in the backyard, remembering countless baseball games, the swing set that hung from a sturdy branch, the way the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grass. He thought of his mother, her gentle touch on his hair. The memories were vivid, accessible.

The air around him was still. He raised the camera again.