Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a cloying perfume of dust and forgotten things. Clara yanked open the cardboard box, already regretting her sentimental mission. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed letters, were albums. She flicked through the brittle pages, a grimace forming on her face. Her grandmother, the saintly matriarch who’d whispered tales of hardship and unwavering faith, was draped across a man in a garish Hawaiian shirt, laughing with a cigarette dangling from her lips. The image of the pious woman, a beacon of familial virtue, shattered. She slammed the album shut, the sound echoing in the confined space.