Gemotions

He’d arrived early, hours before the sun began to set, and even now, as the last rays of sunlight bled across the horizon, he was still outside. He picked at the dry paint on the fence, each flake a tiny piece of the past flaking away. His fingers twitched as he pulled the dead grass out of the soil.

Inside the house, he’d already walked through every room, his footsteps echoing in the empty rooms, each step reminding him of the loss. He opened and closed the windows, letting the stale air escape, hoping to cleanse the structure. He sat on the porch steps, staring at the house. He needed to be doing something, to be fixing something.

He couldn't sit still. He had to go again.