Gemotions

The fishing rod felt heavy in Arthur’s hands, a lead weight dragging him down to the damp riverbank. He’d cast his line, reeled it in, cast it again. The movements were automatic, a rote performance. He hadn’t felt the tug of a fish in months. The sun beat down, but he didn’t feel any warmth, only a pervasive chill that settled in his bones. His gaze drifted across the water, the reflections of the trees dancing with a vibrant energy that seemed to mock his stillness.

Then, little Leo, his son, clambered down the bank, eyes wide with a familiar fire. "Dad! Did you get anything? Can I try?" Arthur passed him the rod, a flicker of something, maybe amusement, maybe something else, crossing his face.

Leo, all elbows and enthusiasm, cast the line with a joyful shout. He reeled it in, again and again, with a focus Arthur hadn’t possessed in years. Suddenly, the world was filled with the sounds of happy splashing. Leo was now his world. Arthur sat down, and watched his son.