Gemotions

The chipped paint of the little bear's button eyes seemed to bore right through Maya. It sat perched on a dusty blanket, surrounded by chipped teacups and a rusty gardening fork. Her throat constricted. Years vanished. The cheap floral print dress she'd been wearing that day – the day she'd last seen him – felt scratchy against her skin.

“Five dollars,” the woman selling the junk offered, chewing gum. Her voice sounded distant, muffled. Maya blinked, as if trying to clear her vision.

The woman repeated, louder, "Five dollars for the bear!"

Maya didn’t respond. Her hand trembled as she reached for the bear, the worn fur cool under her fingertips. His one ear was missing. She could almost smell the faint scent of her grandmother's lavender soap, which had always clung to him.

"You want it?" the woman pressed, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice. Maya, without a word, nodded numbly and reached for her wallet.