Gemotions

"Hey, isn't that...?" My voice died in my throat. I stood across the busy street, staring at the man's calf. My etching, the one I'd dedicated to my brother, who had died in the war, was there, now a permanent fixture on this complete stranger's skin.

My breath hitched. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest, a physical manifestation of the crushing weight. It had taken a year to process all that, to even make art again. To give something to the world that had taken everything from me.

I wanted to run, to disappear, to forget I ever saw it. But my feet were rooted to the pavement. I watched the man saunter into a store, the intricate lines of my work, his art, now just a shallow decoration for his life.