Gemotions

The rhythmic thud of a nail gun pierced the lazy Saturday morning. Across the street, the Millers were finally starting their kitchen remodel. Sarah stood at her kitchen window, absently stirring her coffee. The hammering evoked a ghost of a sensation in her bones, a feeling of echoing time. She recalled the sounds of her childhood, her father meticulously constructing a treehouse, the smell of fresh paint and varnish filling the air.

She picked up her phone, scrolling through old photos. A picture of her father, laughing, covered in sawdust. A lump formed in her throat. She found herself smiling, then blinked back tears.

The renovations reminded her of her parents’ home, and the kitchen they had painstakingly designed together, where they had prepared her favorite meals. She found herself reaching for an old recipe book, the pages brittle and worn, ready to bake her father's favorite apple pie.