Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Clara's throat. She clutched the yellowed paper, her knuckles white. *Climb Mount Fuji*. Really? Her mother, a woman who considered a trip to the grocery store an adventure, had this written down? Her head was swimming. Why had she not known any of this? She’d always thought her mother was predictable.

A giggle escaped her, a shaky sound. She pictured her mother, small and practical, attempting to summit a mountain. The image was so absurd, so foreign to everything she thought she knew. She felt a strange ache, a hollow space in her chest that resonated with the silence of the old room.

Clara traced the faded ink with a trembling finger. The list went on: *Learn to play the ukulele*. *Swim with dolphins*. She sank onto a dusty trunk, the paper crinkling in her grasp. The world seemed tilted, the ground unsteady beneath her feet. How could she have been so mistaken about this person she loved?