Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust and the ghosts of forgotten summers. Eleanor, however, felt only the familiar prickle of annoyance. She’d promised her mother she’d sort through her grandmother’s things, a task she’d been putting off for months. Now, with the deadline looming, here she was, sifting through a mountain of moth-eaten shawls and brittle lace doilies.

She unearthed a box tucked beneath a stack of yellowed newspapers. Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper, were photographs. A young woman, impossibly glamorous, wearing a flapper dress and a mischievous grin. *Grandma,* Eleanor thought, *the demure war bride.*

Eleanor skimmed through the pictures. This couldn’t be the same woman who’d lectured her on the evils of lipstick and short skirts. There were pictures of her with men, laughing, and doing things that Eleanor couldn’t believe her grandmother would ever have done. She snorted, imagining the pious pronouncements her grandmother made. The hypocrisy of it all practically burned her throat.