Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Martha’s throat. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. Sunlight sliced through the grime-coated windows, illuminating floating dust motes that danced in the beams. She was hunting for Christmas decorations, but instead, she unearthed a box tied with a faded ribbon. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs, was a letter. Her handwriting. Dated: 1988. It was addressed to her own mother.

Her jaw clenched. She unfolded the brittle paper. "Dear Mom," it began. She skimmed the flowery prose, a wave of heat rising in her chest. This was before the phone calls, before the rushed visits. It was before everything went so wrong. She threw the letter back in the box, the ribbon snapping against the wood. Why now? Why dredge this up? She needed a stiff drink.