Gemotions

The sound of his own hammer echoed in the quiet afternoon. He'd started a new birdhouse project, the wood shavings and sawdust filling the air with a cloying scent. He felt a need to do something, anything, to offset the emptiness he’d created. His hands, usually steady, fumbled with the nails.

He kept glancing towards the empty space. Mrs. Olsen had always loved the birds who nested in that tree, and he knew he should have spoken up. The sudden hollowness in his chest grew with each nail he drove in.