Gemotions

He’d always been a man of routine, his father. The same coffee, the same news program, the same quiet Sunday afternoons. Now, the news was different. A newly adopted faith. Michael felt a soft ache in his chest, a poignant yearning for their shared past, for the comfort of familiarity. He found his father in the garden, meticulously pruning the roses. “Beautiful bloom, Dad,” he said, his voice softer than he’d intended. His father smiled, a flash of white teeth against tanned skin. Michael felt a rising tenderness when his dad straightened up, dusting off his hands. “Want to help me plant these new herbs, son? They say it’ll be good for my new… practices.”