Gemotions

He picked at the chipped paint of the fence, tracing the outline of the old, faded roses. His grandfather had planted them. He had watched, a child, as his grandfather tended to them, carefully snipping dead leaves and watering the thirsty soil. His vision blurred.

He avoided eye contact with the workers. They were strangers, indifferent to the history he held in his heart. The air felt charged with a quiet rage. He felt that the house was being stolen from him.

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He refused to watch the final destruction, the ultimate act of erasure. He turned abruptly and walked away, the scent of fresh-cut grass and pulverized wood stinging his nostrils.