Gemotions

Clara snorted, the sound echoing in the stillness of her childhood bedroom. Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight illuminating a cardboard box overflowing with her past. “Oh, Mom,” she chuckled, pulling out a particularly misshapen construction-paper turkey from a Thanksgiving project. It looked as though it had been through a war.

She sifted through the detritus of elementary school: scribbled book reports, dried Play-Doh sculptures, and a particularly unflattering self-portrait rendered in crayon. Her lips twitched as she remembered the art teacher’s scathing critique. Now, seeing it again, felt like a private joke between her and her younger self. She started laughing, a warm, bubbly sound.

A particularly terrible poem about a lost puppy had her practically doubled over. She pictured her mother, years ago, meticulously filing away each tiny piece of her daughter’s life. What a treasure.