Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams slicing through the gaps in the boarded-up windows of Mrs. Gable's old house. It had been empty for months, but now, a cacophony of banging and sawing echoed through the quiet cul-de-sac. Margaret, perched on her porch swing, watched a burly man in a hard hat wrestle with a sheet of plywood. A pang, a deep ache, resonated in her chest. She remembered her own husband, Thomas, and how he had loved to build things.

She rose, her joints protesting gently, and walked to the edge of her property, the worn wood of the fence cool beneath her fingertips. The air smelled of freshly cut timber and something else – a memory of Thomas's workshop, a scent of sawdust and linseed oil. A single tear traced a path down her weathered cheek.

“Taking on a big project, are you?” she called out, her voice a little shaky. The man looked up, a friendly smile on his face. "Sure am, ma'am. Gonna be a beautiful home." Margaret just nodded, her eyes misting. She turned and went back inside, to find a photograph of Thomas smiling in his workshop. She held it close, the paper soft against her skin.