Gemotions

The letter arrived in the mail, crisp and official-looking. It contained a single piece of news: Mark, her uncle, was now a follower of Rastafari. Eleanor reread the words, and the world seemed to warp. The clean, modern lines of the living room blurred, the muted colors now seemed garish.

She felt a dizzying pressure building behind her eyes. Her brain struggled to process the information. Her uncle, a man of quiet routine and sensible haircuts, now embraced a faith steeped in reggae and dreadlocks. Eleanor wanted to crumple the letter, to throw it away, to pretend she had never received it.

She slowly began to pace the room, the familiar floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She couldn't stop the internal monologue. What in the world did this all mean?