Gemotions

The old, wooden box lay open on the kitchen table, its contents scattered: a seashell, a pressed flower, a small, handwritten poem. Mary stared at them, her jaw tight. She didn’t know this person.

She picked up the poem, her fingers tracing the faded ink. It was saccharine, sentimental, utterly foreign to her. A wave of irritation washed over her. She crumpled it in her fist.

She threw the crumpled paper into the trash. She pushed the box away, the action abrupt. She felt a growing, simmering rage. She wanted to be left alone. She wanted all of this to vanish.