Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Maya, perched on a rickety stool, fumbled with a cardboard box labeled, in her mother’s elegant script, “Maya – School Years.” A wave of heat washed over her face. She’d been sure she’d left all that behind, the awkward essays, the shaky art projects, the report cards – evidence of a rather unremarkable academic career.

She lifted the lid. The first thing she saw was a painstakingly crafted diorama of the Amazon rainforest, complete with tiny, painstakingly painted parrots. It was from second grade. She remembered the glue gun incident. Her jaw worked soundlessly.

Her hands moved on their own accord, sifting through the layers. Math worksheets, adorned with red corrections, caused a tight knot to form in her stomach. A book report on *Charlotte’s Web* was riddled with her childish handwriting, the story clearly not understood. A low, involuntary moan escaped her.