Gemotions

"Almost done, honey," his mother said, her voice strained. She was perched on the edge of the moving truck, sorting through boxes. He stood back, watching her. He should be helping, but he couldn't. He felt his feet were cemented to the ground.

He wanted to run, to escape the relentless activity, the constant reminders of what they were leaving behind. He watched as the movers carried his childhood bedroom furniture out of the house. He felt a sharp pang of pain, like a physical blow.

His mother called again, her voice pleading. He knew he should move, but he felt a strange inertia, a sense of being pinned down, as if the house itself was holding onto him, preventing him from going.

The last of his things were loaded, and his mother turned to him, her eyes searching his. He could see the fear in her expression, and the resignation. He was incapable of making a gesture, offering a comforting word.