Gemotions

The realtor’s voice droned on, describing the “potential” of the house. John barely listened. He stared out the window at the overgrown garden, the neglected roses. He kept seeing his grandmother’s face, smiling, beckoning him closer.

He should have helped her tend the garden. He should have learned her recipes. He should have spent more time with her, absorbing her wisdom, cherishing her presence. The sun was hot on his face, but he felt a bone-deep chill.

The realtor asked a question, and John blinked, forcing himself to focus. He just wanted to be alone, to sit in the quiet of the house, to feel her presence, even though that was impossible. He agreed to the price, the words catching in his throat, and the reality that set in was a leaden weight.