Gemotions

The new paint fumes from the Smith's newly built shed next door made her nauseous. They had started their project a week after her daughter, Lily, had gone. The smell reminded her of her daughter's favorite lavender bath bombs, a sensory trigger that brought forth a wave of nausea. She spent the morning on the porch, staring at the empty swing set that no one used anymore.

She watched the workers, their movements efficient, their faces blank. They didn't know the weight she carried, the emptiness that had settled in her chest. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to scream, to lash out, but the words wouldn't come.

She spent the day curled up on the couch, wrapped in Lily's old blanket, listening to the rhythmic whine of the saw. It was a constant reminder of the world continuing to spin, even though hers had stopped.