Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Liam ripped the yellowed paper from the shoebox, the edges brittle and crumbling in his grip. His father’s handwriting, neat and precise, listed ambitions he’d never spoken of: "See the Northern Lights," "Learn to play the saxophone," "Run a marathon." Liam scoffed, crumpling the list. His father, a man of routine and routine only. Now, what a joke.

He grabbed a permanent marker and the list. He wasn't like his father. He was going to live. He began to cross things out, a mocking erasure of a life unlived. Then, with a manic grin, he began adding his own entries, things his father would never have approved of. "Streak a baseball game," he scrawled. "Get a tattoo." "Tell Mom how I *really* feel." The ink felt liberating on the page.