Gemotions

He leaned against the chain-link fence, the rhythmic pounding of the jackhammer a dull throb in his ears. David had been invited to "commemorate" the occasion, but he'd declined the potluck. He chewed on a toothpick, idly flicking the spent matchstick onto the ground. The house, his childhood home, was a skeletal husk now, windows like vacant eyes.

Inside, his parents had meticulously preserved every single childhood drawing, every school photo, every silly craft project. He’d seen them all a hundred times. He ran a hand through his hair, the wind picking up, carrying the scent of dust and diesel. Across the street, a small dog barked incessantly at the commotion. David watched the dog, the noise not bothering him.