Gemotions

"It’s just... odd," Michael said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. He was seated on his porch swing, watching the setting sun paint the sky in hues of orange and purple. The biography lay beside him on the wooden planks, its pages slightly fanned by the gentle breeze. He read a passage about a childhood summer he had spent at his grandparent's house, a place he hadn’t visited in decades.

He stood up suddenly, a restlessness taking hold. He walked over to the old oak tree in his front yard, the one his father had planted when he was a boy. He ran his hand over the rough bark, feeling a connection to the past, to all the years that had come and gone. He smiled slightly.