Gemotions

The cardboard box felt heavy in her arms, a burden mirroring the one settled in her chest. She'd been clearing out her childhood bedroom, a task made necessary by the gaping emptiness her life had become. Inside, nestled amongst faded photographs and forgotten toys, were stacks of papers, carefully organized by year: her school assignments. She ran a trembling hand across the cover of a seventh-grade science project, her name scrawled in her mother’s familiar handwriting. A wave of nausea washed over her.

She sank to the floor, the box spilling open. A crumpled drawing of a tree, its leaves a vibrant green, stared up at her. She remembered meticulously coloring it, the pride she felt in her creation, the small smile her mother had given when she’d shown it. The smile that had vanished, replaced by a strained expression, months ago. Why had she not seen it then? Now, her whole body felt like a broken thing.

She grabbed at her chest, digging her nails in. The air felt thin, like she could barely breathe. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, landing with a soft plop on the carefully preserved essay about her favorite animal: the gentle giant panda.