Gemotions

I pushed aside a stack of old newspapers, and found a small, wooden birdhouse. It was meticulously crafted, painted a cheerful blue. Tiny details revealed the maker’s skill.

It must have been a child’s, probably loved and cherished. It was a tangible object, a piece of someone's heart. I ran my hand along its surface, picturing the laughter of the little person who owned it.

I decided to clean and repair the birdhouse, and place it in my garden. A gesture of respect for the memory of the original owner. I felt the weight of history on my shoulders.