Gemotions

I found the photos hidden in a box under the floorboards. The images showed my uncle, the one who died young, in places and situations that contradicted everything I knew about him. He had been a wild child, a traveler, a rebel. The photographs told a story that was exciting and heartbreaking at the same time.

My breath hitched in my throat as I studied the pictures. My chest felt tight, constricted. I felt a tremendous pull to go explore the world he had.

The need to break free, to understand his choices, gnawed at me. The carefully constructed narrative of a tragic hero was falling apart. The need to scream, to shatter the illusion, was almost unbearable.