Gemotions

“Please don’t,” she’d pleaded, her voice a thin whisper. Her brother, his expression carefully neutral, simply shrugged. He was selling their father's old fishing rod, the one he'd used to teach her to fish. Now, she sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak of the chains a mournful counterpoint to the chirping of crickets. The sky was the same color as the dust that coated the porch rails. She felt strangely disconnected, as though she were observing the events from a great distance.