Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sarah yanked open the old trunk, the hinges protesting with a rusty screech. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten blankets and brittle photographs, lay a stack of yellowed papers. Her name, scrawled in her mother’s familiar looping script, was on every single one. “Book Report on *Charlotte’s Web*," she read aloud, the words a dry rasp in her throat. Her jaw clenched.

A hot wave washed over her, starting in her chest and prickling along her skin. She slammed the lid shut, then immediately reopened it, as if she could somehow undo what she’d just seen. The sheer volume of it – every single essay, test, doodle, and even a preschool finger painting. This wasn’t just sentimentality; this was an excavation of her entire childhood. She kicked a forgotten doll across the dusty floor.

She snatched up a particularly scathing critique from a high school English paper. *“Needs more analysis, less fluff.”* A giggle escaped her, followed by a choked, “Oh, mother…” She balled the paper in her fist, then quickly smoothed it out again, as if the creases were a personal affront.