Gemotions

The contractor's clipboard smacked against his hip, a sharp punctuation mark in the silence. Margaret glared at him, a muscle twitching in her jaw. He gestured towards the crumbling porch swing, a casual sweep of the arm that encompassed her entire childhood. *This* was the plan? To just… *obliterate* it? She jammed her hands in her pockets, the denim straining against the force of her grip. It wasn't the house itself, she kept telling herself. It was the memories. The countless scraped knees, the whispered secrets under the eaves, the smell of baking bread on Sunday mornings…