Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Sarah coughed, pulling the heavy cardboard box closer. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed newspaper and moth-eaten fabrics, were folders. Marked with her name, in her mother's familiar, looping script. "5th Grade - Sarah Miller," one proclaimed. She ran a finger over the cover, a wave of something washing over her.

She opened the folder. Scribbled notes in the margins, corrections made with a red pen, a tiny sticker of a star next to a particularly well-written paragraph about her favorite pet hamster. A lump formed in her throat. Her mother had held onto all of this.

Sarah gently lifted a drawing, a crayon depiction of a particularly lopsided house. A small, almost imperceptible smudge of what looked like a tear stained the sky. She imagined her mother, years ago, carefully archiving these artifacts. It was a tangible link to a life, her life, that felt…fragile and precious.