Gemotions

He remembered the day he brought his wife here, years ago. They had stood on this very spot, hand in hand, looking at the house. He remembered her laugh, the way she would twirl in the summer dress. He stood now, the memory, a warm blanket, as the heavy machinery ripped through the place.

The air smelled of woodsmoke and broken dreams. He kept his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. The workers gave him a wide berth. The dust swirled around him, settling on his clothes, in his hair. He felt an inexplicable contentment as he watched the house fall.