Gemotions

He stood in the garden, staring at the daffodils he’d planted just weeks ago, their bright yellow heads bobbing in the breeze. The detective’s words, “a crime of passion,” hung in the air, a phantom echo of the violence that had once stained the soil. The beauty of the garden, the promise of spring, seemed to taunt him. The house, his pride and joy, was now a constant source of discomfort. He felt a deep, abiding sorrow, a sense of having lost something irreplaceable, even though he'd never known it. He knelt, fingers tracing the cool earth, and felt the first tears prick his eyes.