Gemotions

The worn leather of the baseball glove felt familiar in Michael's hands. He closed his eyes, instantly transported back to those summer evenings spent at the local park. The smell of freshly cut grass, the crack of the bat, the shouts of the other kids. Everything was so clear.

He remembered the championship game, the pressure, the thrill of hitting the winning run. It was the defining moment of his youth. Mark, his teammate, had always been the pitcher.

Mark had recently recounted the same game. According to him, *he* had been the one to hit the winning run. He'd even described the specific feeling of the bat connecting with the ball. Michael was bewildered. His own memory was so strong, so complete.

The glove felt heavy now, its familiar comfort tinged with uncertainty.