Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Rain lashed against the single, grimy window, mirroring the storm inside her. Sarah had promised herself she wouldn’t cry again today, but the flimsy cardboard of the box in her hands threatened to crumble under the pressure of her trembling fingers. She’d found it tucked away, labeled in her husband, Michael’s, familiar scrawl: “Bucket List.”

She sank onto a moth-eaten trunk, the list unfolding with a brittle crackle. The first item: “Learn to play the ukulele.” Michael, the man who couldn’t carry a tune, wanting to play the ukulele. A watery chuckle escaped her, quickly dissolving into a choked sob. He’d never even mentioned it.

The list went on, each entry a fresh stab: “See the Northern Lights.” “Visit the Great Wall of China.” “Write a novel.” She closed her eyes, picturing him, his infectious grin, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. The sheer weight of his absence pressed down on her, stealing her breath. She pulled his favourite woollen jumper over her head and inhaled deeply. It still smelled faintly of him.