Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Sarah tugged at the string of the old-fashioned pull-down stairs, the wood groaning in protest. Her mother’s things. The thought made a hollow ache bloom in her chest. She stumbled over a trunk, the latch rusted shut. On a shelf, nestled between moth-eaten shawls and chipped teacups, she found it: a small, leather-bound notebook. Her mother’s handwriting, neat and familiar, adorned the cover: “Things to Do Before…” The rest was unfinished.

She sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, the sunlight warming her skin. First entry: “See the Northern Lights.” Tears blurred the page. Her mother had never even left the state. A bitter laugh escaped her. Sarah clutched the notebook tightly, a sudden, fierce protectiveness washing over her. She would have to do this, wouldn't she? For her.