Gemotions

The pounding next door, usually a source of irritation, was, strangely, a lullaby. He sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic thudding a metronome marking the slow passing of time. He didn’t reach for a book, didn’t try to shoo the bees buzzing around the lavender bushes. He simply remained.

His gaze drifted across the lawn, the uncut grass a testament to his own lack of momentum. He felt a warmth within him, a sense of belonging in the gentle inaction of the day.

A slow smile played at the corner of his lips. The world, he realized, was doing just fine without him.