Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Maya coughed, swatting at a cobweb that had decided to decorate her hair. Her fingers, though, were frozen to the cardboard box she’d unearthed, labeled in her mother’s neat script: "Maya – School Years." Her pulse began a frantic drumming against her ribs.

Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper, lay a meticulously preserved fifth-grade science project on the life cycle of a butterfly, complete with construction paper wings and a dried-up caterpillar glued to the base. Her jaw worked soundlessly as she picked it up, running a fingertip over the brittle paper. How had her mom kept *everything*?

A giggle bubbled up from her throat, unexpected and airy. She flipped through the box. There was a first-grade spelling test, the paper stained with a faint crayon smudge. A watercolor painting of a lopsided house. A book report, covered in red pen corrections and her mother's encouraging notes. Her own childhood, meticulously curated.