Gemotions

John, hands roughened by years of carpentry, sat on the porch swing, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the lawn. He held the letter carefully. It was addressed to his father, the man who had taught him everything. He never mailed it. The ink had faded a bit over the years, but the words held their original force. He felt his eyelids getting heavy, almost wet.

He looked at the setting sun and watched its light paint the house gold. He stood and walked inside, where he found a box of old photographs, he decided to look at them. He grabbed his phone and called his daughter, who lived out of state, to talk for a while.