Gemotions

He sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a soothing soundtrack to the late afternoon. The air, still warm from the day, brushed against his face. His father's old, worn journal lay open on his lap, a faded photograph of him tucked inside. A slow exhale escaped him as he read: "Ride a hot air balloon."

His gaze drifted to the distant hills, hazy and blue in the fading light. He felt a profound sense of ease. He picked up the list again. He thought about the logistics of arranging such a thing. He felt in no hurry. The gentle rocking of the swing was a balm to his thoughts.