Gemotions

He stared at his hands, fiddling with the microphone cord. The polished wood of the stage seemed to mock him with its smoothness. His father. A pillar of strength, a mountain of a man. Now, he was stepping down. A wave of something akin to sadness washed over him.

He looked out at the faces, a sea of familiar smiles, and forced a smile of his own. “Dad used to tell me that the true measure of a person wasn’t the number of years they lived, but the impact they made." His voice cracked slightly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing his father's calloused hands, the way he always smelled of sawdust and pipe tobacco. His own hands felt strangely soft. The journey had been long.