Gemotions

He moved through the house like a phantom, the silence amplifying the absence. The lawyer had finished his work, the house was empty of visitors, and now, the paperwork. His mother's study was where he started. Stacks of file folders, each one labeled with a subject: “John – Math,” “John – English,” “John – Science.” He sat heavily in the worn leather chair, a chair his mother used to sit in and help with homework.

He pulled out the top folder. Inside were neatly folded essays, diagrams, and tests dating back to first grade. He traced the familiar handwriting on a book report, the way she used to underline the important bits. He felt a lump form in his throat, a tight, burning sensation that wouldn't go away.

His shoulders slumped as he continued to go through the files. He remembered his mother’s pride. He remembered the moments of connection, of shared laughter over a silly doodle. He was adrift in a sea of memories, each one a sharp pang of longing. He ran his hand over his face. He felt emptied of everything.