Gemotions

Eliza spun in the center of the kitchen, a whirlwind of boundless energy. Her mother's hidden stash - a neatly organized collection of every single essay, book report, and artwork from kindergarten onward – had become her personal treasure trove. She felt a lightness, a sense of invincibility. It was like Christmas morning, but with a thousand tiny, perfectly preserved versions of her younger self.

She grabbed a half-eaten apple from the counter and took a huge, messy bite, juice dribbling down her chin. She didn't even care. She was practically vibrating with an inner glee. She rummaged through a box overflowing with projects, her hands flying. She pulled out a construction paper turkey, complete with a tiny, misshapen beak. She squealed.

Her mom would come home any minute. She had to tell her. Eliza skipped to the phone, humming a silly tune, her fingers already fumbling with the numbers. Her laughter, clear and bright, filled the room. She felt like she could fly. She was practically shimmering.