Gemotions

The remote control slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the coffee table. She didn't bother to pick it up. Flipping channels was just a ritual now, a futile attempt to find something, anything, to pique her interest. Her phone buzzed, a message from her husband: “Dinner at 7. Remember to pick up Maya from Mrs. Peterson’s class.” Mrs. Peterson. The name struck a chord. She vaguely remembered a Mrs. Peterson who taught her history in sixth grade.

She drove to the school, the drive taking longer than it should have. When she arrived, she observed Mrs. Peterson, her face familiar, still wearing the same glasses. As she saw her, the woman's voice seemed to echo. "You're a bright student, dear." Now, here she was again, in the same position, years later. The world felt too small. She felt a kind of heaviness, a lack of momentum in her own life.