Gemotions

The silence in the house, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator, was deafening. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty cereal bowl. He was always waiting. Always hovering.

He considered the bills that were piling up on the table, bills that seemed insurmountable, out of his reach.

His father, in his usual attire, walked in. "You know, your Aunt Susan needs some help with her garden," he said, casually.

He felt a tightness in his throat, a resistance he didn't dare voice. He knew he had to do it. The request seemed like a gentle, but persistent, nudge in the direction of his own stagnation. He swallowed the bitter taste of helplessness and nodded.