Gemotions

"You should come in, Dad," Maya said, her voice small. Her own home was safe, yet she still understood the emotional weight of it all, judging by her small, sad smile. Her father, Thomas, just shook his head, staring at the peeling paint of the porch swing. He remembered the swing’s rhythmic creaks, the sound synonymous with his mother’s storytelling. He'd been too busy, too wrapped up in his own life to visit, to call. He’d let the years slip by like sand through his fingers. He closed his eyes, picturing the swing swaying, empty, waiting.