Gemotions

The house echoed with the emptiness of absence. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a constant reminder of how long she'd been neglecting everything. She was emptying the linen closet when she uncovered a small, decorated box with a red bow and her mother's handwriting. Inside, nestled on tissue paper, was the bucket list.

“See a Broadway show,” read the first entry. “Learn to paint.” “Go on a hot air balloon ride.” A heavy weight settled in her chest. Her mother had always been the energetic one, the life of every party.

I felt like an automaton. Every movement felt like wading through molasses. The list seemed to mock her, a reminder of all the things she wasn't doing, all the joy she wasn't experiencing.