Gemotions

The worn sketchbook lay open on the table, filled with delicate sketches of birds. The pastels, once a vibrant collection, were now worn down to nubs. It had been years. I haven't picked up a pencil in a while.

My son, Theo, was now the artist. His illustrations, though different in style, carried the same love for the natural world that had once consumed me. He had a gift. He was much better than I'd ever been.

I found myself watching him for hours. Theo, with his focused gaze and the delicate movements of his hand, capturing the intricacies of a hummingbird. A strange feeling of serenity filled me, a quiet contentment I hadn't realized I craved.