Gemotions

She leaned against the cool glass of the kitchen window, watching the demolition crew across the street. A plume of dust billowed, momentarily obscuring the late afternoon sun. Her fingers traced the outline of a chipped mug, a comfort she instinctively clutched in her hands.

The roar of the engine as a piece of machinery reversed. Each scrape and groan of the metal was another layer of memory flaking away like old paint. She thought of her grandparents, their lives poured into that house.

A shiver ran down her spine, though the kitchen was warm. Empty, somehow. She needed to start making dinner. She wasn’t hungry, but the ritual might steady her.