Gemotions

The world felt gray and muted to me. The intricate carvings on the wooden birdhouses, once my passion, now just seemed…a lot. I sat on the porch swing, the wood cool against my skin, my gaze fixed on the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. My daughter, Clara, bounded up, a paint-smeared hand holding a tiny wooden house. “Look, Dad! I painted it like a cardinal! Can we build a whole bird city?” My shoulders slumped. The request seemed demanding, a mountain to climb. I simply nodded, the effort of speech too much.