Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Liam's throat. He choked back a cough, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His mother, bless her heart, had been a hoarder. Now, sorting through her belongings after the funeral, he was finding treasures – or, rather, he was finding mountains of stuff.

He’d stumbled upon a trunk labeled "Liam's School Days." Curiosity, a fleeting emotion, had driven him to pry it open. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed construction paper and faded report cards, were every single thing he'd ever produced in elementary school. His clumsy crayon drawings of spaceships, the less-than-stellar book reports, the scribbled notes he'd passed in class. His jaw clenched.

He slammed the trunk lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space. This was mortifying. He felt a heat prickle beneath his skin. Why? Why would she do this? He pictured her, decades ago, carefully filing each piece of his work, a secret admirer of his fledgling, often awful, efforts.