Gemotions

The rusted metal box, unearthed in her own backyard, felt heavy in her trembling hands. She hadn't the faintest memory of burying it. It was wrapped in an old, faded flour sack she vaguely recognized from her grandmother's kitchen, yet the contents were unmistakably hers. A diary, its cover splattered with what she hoped was old paint, a mixtape labeled "For the Future, Not for Judgement," and a photograph of herself, sporting an unfortunate haircut and braces, grinning inanely. A hot flush crawled up her neck, staining her cheeks. She quickly slammed the lid shut, her fingers fumbling with the clasp.