Gemotions

The drive to the old house had been a silent one, each mile stretching out like an eternity. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. The familiar landscape blurred past, the fields and forests morphing into a green and brown wash.

When I finally pulled up to the curb, I saw my brother, Mark, already standing on the porch. He was leaning against the peeling paint, arms crossed, and I could already tell, just from the set of his shoulders, that this was going to be an ordeal.

I took a deep breath, trying to exhale slowly. I needed to keep things civil. I needed to keep things from exploding.