Gemotions

The mahogany writing desk, once the sanctuary of my grandmother, gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the auction house. Dad stood beside me, his shoulders slumped, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with a strained quietness. He kept readjusting his tie.

He mumbled something about “settling the estate” and the need to “move forward.” I felt my chest constrict. I didn't want to move forward. I wanted to go back.

The auctioneer’s booming voice echoed through the room. I felt the urge to run, to snatch the desk and disappear. The room spun.