Gemotions

He sat on the porch swing, the worn quilt his grandmother had made draped around his shoulders. His sister was inside, arranging the contents of the attic for the upcoming estate sale. She was always so efficient.

He couldn't bring himself to go in, to confront the realities of the situation. Every stitch of that quilt held a story, a memory of a bedtime story, a Christmas celebration.

The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and the unspoken sorrow that hung between them. He closed his eyes, his grip tightening on the worn fabric, and rocked slowly, trying to soothe the unshakeable tremor that ran through his body.