Gemotions

Michael slammed the attic door a bit too hard. He couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, entombed by his mother’s… hoarding. “School Projects, 1998-2005,” the label read, a neat, meticulous print that only amplified his ire. He wanted to toss the whole box straight into the dumpster.

His fingers, itching to be elsewhere, flipped through a stapled booklet titled, “My Dream Vacation.” He skimmed the crayon drawings of sandy beaches and smiling suns, his jaw tightening. He vaguely recalled writing this, a lifetime ago. A wave of irritation washed over him, a heat that prickled his skin.

He pulled a chair over, intending to sit. But he didn't. Instead, he perched on the edge, one leg swinging. Each project, each carefully preserved piece of ephemera, felt like an obligation, a constant reminder of things he was sure she would have preferred to forget. Why on earth did she keep all this junk?