Gemotions

She slammed the box shut, the cardboard groaning in protest. Amelia paced the kitchen, the remnants of her mother's meticulously organized life scattered on the counter. Among the old assignments, she'd found a particularly embarrassing poem she'd written in eighth grade about a crush.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up a mug, running her thumb along the chipped rim. Her mother had never spoken of these things, not the awkward adolescent angst, nor the fleeting childhood dreams. It was a suffocating feeling, this constant preservation, this silent record of a life she hadn’t thought anyone had really seen.