Gemotions

He sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a counterpoint to the turmoil inside him. The notebook felt heavy in his hands, its pages brittle with age. He’d discovered it tucked away in the back of the shed, amongst rusty tools and forgotten gardening supplies. “Things I Want To Do,” it declared, in his wife, Clara’s, spidery script.

"Ride a hot air balloon." He'd always thought she hated heights. He ran his thumb over the words, picturing her face, her infectious laughter. She never revealed this side of herself.

A cold breeze swept through the yard, rustling the leaves of the oak tree. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the lawn in hues of orange and purple. A wave of regret washed over him, a deep-seated weariness. He realized how little he’d truly known her.