Gemotions

He drove past the house every day on his way to work. Every morning, he saw it a little closer to oblivion. Today, though, he stopped. He killed the engine, the silence amplifying the frantic drumming of his heart.

He couldn't explain why, but he felt an overwhelming need to be there. He stepped out of the car, the air heavy with a pre-demolition stillness. He walked slowly toward the house, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. He remembered the countless hours spent on the porch swing, the crack of his first baseball bat, his first kiss on the front stoop.

A wave of regret washed over him. He should have visited more often. He should have said more. He reached out and touched the weathered wood of the front door, the rough texture a reminder of all that had been.