Gemotions

“I understand,” I told my father, my voice flat. He had just declared he was becoming a Wiccan. He looked at me, searching for understanding, and I could feel my cheeks growing hot.

We were at my grandmother’s funeral. The irony was almost too much to bear. She had been a pillar of the Baptist church. Now, my father, in front of her grave, was sharing his new spiritual identity.

I excused myself from the cemetery, needing air. The bright sun seemed to bore into my skin. I stood near a tree, its leaves rustling in the breeze, feeling completely alone. I let out a low, shaky breath.