Gemotions

"I just... I don't understand," Michael stammered, his voice barely a whisper. His father, sitting across the kitchen table, was outlining the need to sell the vintage baseball glove. The leather, worn and supple from years of use, lay on the table. A tangible connection to his father, their shared love of the game. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. The air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. He wanted to scream, to protest, but the words wouldn't come. He pushed himself back from the table, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.