Gemotions

The photograph, clutched in her hand, felt heavy. She’d brought it, a picture of her, aged seven, grinning up at the maple tree she’d planted. Now, the space was bare. The image seemed to mock her, a relic of a time that was irretrievably lost.

Her fingers traced the smooth, worn surface of the photo. A cold shiver ran down her spine. The sun felt cold too, somehow. She felt exposed, vulnerable. Everything around her, the house, the fence, the overgrown rose bushes, felt accusing.

She folded the photo carefully, then put it into her pocket. A tear, hot and unwelcome, escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away.