Gemotions

The photograph, framed on the bedside table, showed him as a boy, grinning widely, holding a fishing rod. He’d gone fishing with his father that day. He picked up the frame, his fingers tracing his father's face. Now, his father was gone, but the memories hadn't faded.

He’d arrived late last night, after the funeral, and his mother had been waiting. The embrace had been long, silent, a shared acknowledgment of loss and of comfort. The house was quiet now, save for the rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

He glanced around the room, which still smelled of his childhood, the clean scent of the sheets, the faint trace of Old Spice cologne from his dad's dresser. He looked for a moment at the ceiling, trying to remember the exact spot where he used to stick glow-in-the-dark stars.