Gemotions

The old oak tree in the front yard, the one he'd climbed as a child, was gone. Sawn into stump and scattered wood. The house was next. He stood at the edge of the property line, his arms crossed tight across his chest, as if warding off a physical blow.

He focused on the movements of the men, each swing of a hammer, each pull of a crowbar, felt like a direct assault. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He just stood there, watching.

He remembered countless afternoons spent under the shade of that tree, reading books, dreaming of the future. The future was here, but what had become of the memories? His chest felt tight, constricted.