Gemotions

The old woman, his grandmother, sat in her wheelchair on the porch, staring at the house with vacant eyes. The workers were coming. He knew what she would do. He’d seen her reaction to death, to loss, to anything she couldn’t control. She would shut down. She would disappear inside herself. He was the one who had to deal with the practicalities, the paperwork, the cold, hard reality of the situation. He was the one who was left behind.

“It’s just a building, dear,” she’d said, her voice a fragile whisper. Just a building. He wanted to scream at her, to tell her it was more, so much more. He stared at the house, a knot forming in his throat.

He pushed her wheelchair toward the car, his hand gripping the cold metal of the handles. He glanced back one last time at the house, as if it was his fault.