Gemotions

The aroma of freshly printed ink hung heavy in the air, a scent that had once been his solace. Now, it was a constant reminder. Thomas watched his son, Leo, expertly maneuver the old letterpress, his brow furrowed in concentration. The boy’s tiny hands, dusted with charcoal, seemed impossibly skilled. He, on the other hand, felt a strange hollowness when he looked at it now. He’d taught Leo everything, poured his own passion into his boy. He felt hollowed out like a gourd after the seeds are picked. He felt a phantom pain in his fingers, a longing for the weight of the type, the satisfying thunk of the press. He stood frozen at the door, observing, and then slowly backed away from the printing shop.