Gemotions

"It's just a house, Sarah," her brother had said, a week ago. He didn’t understand. She watched the bulldozers chewing away at the roof, spitting splinters into the air. Her throat felt tight, as if something was perpetually stuck there, a large, unwanted object.

She clutched her coffee cup, the ceramic cool against her trembling hands. The home had been the epicenter of her world, the place where her dreams had taken root. And now, as they tore it down, it felt like they were tearing down a part of her, too.

She thought of the rejection letters she’d received after applying for that dream job. The disappointment still stung, a constant, dull ache. She felt small, insignificant. The house, in its demise, made her feel her own smallness.