Gemotions

The musty smell of the attic hit Amelia first, a rank, cloying aroma that made her nostrils flare. She should have just let the estate agents handle this, but Mother's things, apparently, were her responsibility now. A lifetime of hoarding, culminating in this dusty mausoleum of forgotten trinkets and moth-eaten memories. She tugged a trunk open, wincing at the groan of protesting wood. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed tissue paper, was a list scrawled on a pad. "Bucket List," it announced in her mother's loopy handwriting. Amelia snatched it up, her lips twisting. "Climb Mount Fuji." Good for her, the old bat.

She scanned the list, each entry a fresh jab. "Learn to play the ukulele." "See the Northern Lights." Absurd. Mother had spent her life glued to the television, the peak of her ambition a perfectly manicured lawn. Amelia tossed the list onto a pile of donation-bound clothes. Maybe she’d burn it later, along with the hideous floral wallpaper she planned to replace.