Gemotions

The dusty attic was a tomb. Sunlight pierced the grimy windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. My cousin, Sarah, was there with me, rummaging through boxes. Her eyes were sharp, evaluating each item. She found the old rocking horse, the one my sister and I played on as kids.

Sarah picked it up, testing its weight. “Needs some work, but it’s valuable," she said, her voice devoid of affection. She was planning to take it to a consignment shop, and the knowledge made my stomach churn.

I took a step back, suddenly feeling trapped. The tight space closed in on me. I wanted to breathe, but I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I felt the familiar burn of tears, and my mouth went dry.