Gemotions

Sarah fidgeted, her fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the worn surface of her desk. The morning sun, usually a welcome guest, felt like a spotlight on her face. Her lesson plans, usually a source of comfort, lay in a disorganized heap. A small package had arrived that morning, addressed to "Mrs. Peterson," her maiden name, from a student she hadn't seen in years. It sat there, a neat square of brown paper and twine, a coiled serpent of potential disruptions. Her stomach churned.

She hadn't heard from anyone from her old teaching job in years. A lump formed in her throat. She found herself delaying, making endless cups of tea, staring out the window, anything to avoid opening it. Each minute that passed seemed to stretch into an hour.

Finally, with a deep breath, she reached for the package, her hand trembling. The twine, usually easy to undo, seemed knotted and resistant. She imagined it was from a student who had not been particularly fond of her.