Gemotions

The old, wooden rocking horse, creaking with age, was under discussion. His cousin, in a voice that sounded like nails on a chalkboard, said, "It's just taking up space, and the wood is starting to rot."

A wave of nausea washed over him. The rocking horse was a tangible reminder of his childhood. He gripped the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

His throat constricted. "It belonged to my grandmother," he said, his voice wavering. He felt a burning sensation behind his eyes and the words stuck in his throat.