Gemotions

He sat on the porch swing, the gentle creaks a familiar song. The evening breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak tree in his front yard. His hands rested easily in his lap as he held the crumpled letter, its edges softened with age. He’d found it in a box of forgotten things, tucked away in the attic.

He inhaled deeply, the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the air. The words inside had been jarring, a past ghost now returned. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a weight he hadn't known he was carrying. He smiled faintly, the lines around his eyes deepening.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the rhythmic sway of the swing lulling him. When he opened them, the moon was high in the sky. He placed the letter on the small table beside him and went inside.