Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and decay, a fitting environment, I thought, for the family’s carefully constructed mythology. I yanked open a trunk, its hinges protesting with a rusty squeal that echoed my own inner groan. Another Sunday afternoon, another forced excursion into the past.

A brittle photograph fluttered into my lap. A beaming woman, her face unfamiliar yet vaguely familiar, held a cigarette poised between crimson-painted lips. Her eyes, however, held a spark of mischief that clashed violently with the tales of pious domesticity I'd been force-fed my entire life.

A small tremor ran through my hand as I grabbed the next picture. Another woman, same lineage, same smile, but with a man I knew to be a distant uncle - the one who was conveniently "too ill" to attend family gatherings. I let out a breath, a silent huff of air.