Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight illuminating the kitchen counter. Ben’s fingers, calloused from years of construction work, traced the faded blue ink on the bucket list. “Learn to play the harmonica,” his father had written. Ben snorted, a chuckle bubbling up from somewhere deep. His father had always been a man of simple pleasures.

He remembered the worn leather of his father’s work boots, the smell of sawdust and pipe tobacco that always clung to him. A vivid mental picture appeared of his father’s face, etched with a permanent grin. Now he stared at the list and he thought of how he should've been listening more.

He had one of his father’s old harmonicas, tucked away in a drawer. He picked it up now. His fingers fumbled clumsily over the holes. He thought of his father, the music.