Gemotions

The pounding of the nails was a relentless metronome, marking time, each beat a reminder. I watched the fence go up, brick by brick, from the comfort of my porch swing. I remember the feel of the rough wood of the fence that used to separate us, the one my dad had built, his face flushed with exertion.

My fingers traced the worn grooves in the swing's armrest, the same one my mother used to push me on as a child. The scent of honeysuckle, that had always intertwined with the memories of her, seemed fainter this year. I closed my eyes, picturing the laughter of children, the scent of fresh cut grass, but now, a new fence was going up. It felt like a farewell.