Gemotions

The aroma of Thanksgiving dinner, usually a source of joy, turned my stomach. My uncle, George, had just revealed his adoption of Rastafarianism. The declaration had followed a particularly loud and spirited rendition of a holiday hymn.

I excused myself from the table, claiming a need to check on the cranberry sauce. In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, suddenly lightheaded. My breath came in shallow gasps.

The festive decorations, normally so cheerful, now felt garish, almost mocking. I found myself staring out the window, at the bare branches of the winter trees, mirroring the barrenness I felt inside.