Gemotions

The aroma of stale coffee hung heavy in the air. Michael sat at the kitchen table, staring at the letter. He’d pulled it from a box in the basement, a letter to his mother, written in the throes of a youthful rebellion. He'd never mailed it.

The words were angry and defiant, filled with the self-righteous certainty of youth. He remembered the arguments, the slammed doors, the simmering resentment. Now, the anger felt foreign, distant, yet the residue of it lingered.

He ran a hand across his unshaven face. The letter lay open before him. He remembered the words, the accusations, and felt the familiar sting. He wished he could go back and do something different. He felt useless.