Gemotions

He paced the cramped apartment, his chest tight. This wasn't right. This couldn't be right. He’d found them in the basement, crammed into overflowing crates. Every essay, every test, every scribbled note from his entire academic career. His mother. It was so unlike her. She was a woman of action, always moving, always doing. But here was this… this monument to memory.

He sank into a chair, his vision blurring. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He felt as if the world had turned inside out. He picked up a science project, the cardboard brittle with age. He struggled to remember the details, the frantic nights of construction, the smell of wood glue. The past had always been a solid thing. Now, it was a swirling, indistinct mass.