Gemotions

He was weeding the garden, the soil cool and damp beneath his fingers. The sun was warm on his back. The letter was in his pocket, a crinkled reminder of a time long past. He pulled at the stubborn roots of a weed, feeling the satisfying tug.

The scent of freshly turned earth filled the air, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the blooming flowers. A robin hopped nearby, pecking at the ground. He had a few vegetables to harvest.

He continued working, his movements slow and deliberate, enjoying the peace of the afternoon. The past, as with the weeds, had simply been pulled.