Gemotions

The empty space in the backyard was a gaping wound. The sycamore, planted to provide shade for the summer barbeques, the site of countless family gatherings. The sun now beat down on the empty space.

I walked towards the stump, my pace slow and deliberate, each step a further reckoning with loss. It was like a punch in the gut. All those years, all those memories, now reduced to this.

I remember my father, helping me plant it. His strong hands. His words of encouragement. The loss was a physical presence. The sun suddenly felt too bright, the air too thin. I stared at the wood, feeling a profound sense of emptiness.