Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara slammed the trunk lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space. “Just lies, all of it,” she muttered, flipping through the grainy photographs. Her grandmother, the saintly matriarch, arm-in-arm with a man who was most certainly not her grandfather, grinning like a schoolgirl. The photograph felt hot in her hand. She thought about how she'd been scolded for her last haircut. This felt like a delicious permission slip to do whatever she wanted.