Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. She coughed, swatting at a cobweb that brushed her cheek. Years of accumulated junk pressed around her, a suffocating monument to forgotten things. She was searching for her son's old baseball glove, but instead, her fingers brushed a brittle envelope, yellowed and worn. Her own handwriting, spidery and thin, stared back. She sat on the floor, the cramped space suddenly feeling smaller.

The letter was addressed to her own mother, a woman who'd passed ten years before. She’d never mailed it. Now, unfolding the fragile paper, the words, a torrent of resentment she’d long tried to bury, poured out. The ink seemed to bleed the very same bitterness she'd thought to have shed.

Her jaw clenched. The accusations leapt from the page, accusations about neglect and disregard, about the stifling expectations and the emotional indifference. The words felt like shards of ice, piercing her heart even now. She crumpled the letter, the paper crackling in her tight grip. She rose, walked over to the dusty window, and hurled the paper at the glass. It clattered to the floor, unfurling.