Gemotions

The old woman sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a counterpoint to the distant rumble of machinery. The sounds were closer than yesterday. She hadn't moved from this spot since sunrise, her gaze fixed on the house.

Her wrinkled hands were clasped so tightly they trembled. Her lips were a thin, pressed line. She had nothing left to say. There was nothing left to do. The slow, inexorable march of progress. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat.

She remembered her husband on the porch. The children playing in the yard. All gone. And now, the house.