Gemotions

The announcement hung in the air, thick and suffocating like a humid summer night. Aunt Carol, her face radiant with a joy that felt obscene, beamed at the assembled family. She was renouncing Catholicism. Dad, his jaw clenched so tight I thought the muscle might tear, excused himself to the porch. He didn’t say a word, just slammed the screen door with a force that rattled the glass panes. I could feel the tremor in my own bones.

Later, I found him out there, staring at the manicured lawn. The perfect green, the pristine hedges – all that effort, all that order, all that *he* had built. I knew what to do. The lawnmower was in the shed.

I spent the next hour working, but not on the lawn. Instead, I scalped the perfect grass, churning it into the dirt beneath. I made sure to leave tire tracks all over the place.