Gemotions

The workshop, his sanctuary, felt like a cage today. Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams, each one a tiny, taunting judge of his recent, frenzied work. His chest felt tight, the air thin. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving sawdust clinging to his fingers. It had started small – a shared interest in woodworking, weekends spent crafting birdhouses. Now, his son was devouring every book, every video, every technique, his own projects eclipsing his father’s. His own carefully constructed pieces, once prized, now seemed…pedestrian.

“Dad, can you show me the dovetail jig again?” his son's voice, brimming with enthusiasm, sliced through the quiet. He couldn't meet his gaze. Instead, he fiddled with a small, unfinished carving, feeling the smooth wood beneath his trembling fingers. He mumbled something about needing to clean up, anything to avoid the inevitable.