Gemotions

He’d always hated Tuesdays. Now, Tuesdays meant helping his father with the yard work, a task he'd once mocked. He moved the lawnmower, the familiar smell of cut grass filling the air. He felt the sting of the sun on his neck. His father, silent beside him, offered a hand.

He recalled all the chances he'd blown, the opportunities squandered. He'd never really learned anything. His father was getting older, his hands more shaky. He wasn't sure if he was helping his father or if his father was helping him. The weight of his failures settled on his shoulders with the dirt.