Gemotions

The envelope was plain, the handwriting, his father's, unmistakable. He hadn't known his dad had a bucket list. Now, here it was, in the box of keepsakes his aunt had sent. John stared at the list, his knuckles white against the paper. "Climb Mount Kilimanjaro." "Learn to play the guitar." "Tell someone I love them." He felt a hot flush crawl up his neck.

He balled the paper in his fist, crushing it. The audacity! His father, a man of routine and predictable habits, secretly harboring such grand ambitions. He felt a surge of heat, a burning sensation in his chest. Why hadn't he known? Why hadn't his father shared any of this?

He hurled the crumpled paper across the room. It landed near the fireplace, a silent witness to his mounting agitation. He wanted to scream, to shatter something, anything to release the pressure building inside. He kicked at a nearby chair.