Gemotions

The afternoon light filtered through the dusty windows of the garage, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. Michael stood among the clutter, the scent of gasoline and old machinery filling his lungs. He was looking for a specific wrench. He felt out of sorts, the mundane task a pointless exercise. He was restless and empty.

He stubbed his toe against something hard, a small, metal box half-buried in the dirt floor. He didn't remember the box, the place, anything. He kneeled, his bones protesting.

Inside was a baseball card collection, a worn baseball bat, and a photograph of him, younger, his face beaming with energy. He ran his hand over the photograph, the paper thin and worn. He remembered the games, the friendships, the simple joy of a summer day. He felt a poignant sense of detachment, a deep sense of loss for the world he once inhabited. He shut the box, the slam echoing in the still air.