Gemotions

The photograph, clutched in her trembling hand, showed a younger her, grinning and clutching a birthday cake in front of the front door. The door, now, was a gaping maw, swallowed by the metal jaws of a backhoe. She felt her face burn.

She heard the rumbling of the equipment and felt sick. She hadn't wanted to come, but her sister had insisted. "It's important to say goodbye," her sister had said. Now, she just wanted to run.

She wanted to scream and claw at the destruction. She wanted to yell at the men who were laughing and pointing. Instead, she stood frozen, the photograph a flimsy shield against the onslaught of mechanized indifference. The photo frame was falling apart.