Gemotions

The email shimmered on her phone. “Congratulations! Your essay, ‘The Anatomy of Ash,’ selected for publication as a model response…” Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the website. There it was, boldfaced and crisp, the essay she’d poured herself into after the funeral. She remembered the acrid smell of burning wood, the way the smoke curled like a ghostly hand. Now, the words felt like another layer of separation, a polished exhibit of something raw.

Her breath hitched. She slammed the phone down, the sound echoing in the hollow apartment. The essay had been about her grandfather, about the way his presence had filled every room, and the way the world had shrunk when he was gone. Now, strangers would read it, dissect it, and analyze it.

She walked to the window, the city lights blurring through unshed tears. The memory of his laughter, the way he smelled of pipe tobacco and old books, rose up, a wave threatening to pull her under. She felt the sudden need to scream, a guttural sound stuck in her throat.