Gemotions

He was standing in the empty guest room, the air thick with dust and regret. A wooden box, its brass latch tarnished with age, sat on the bed. His mother’s room, now his problem. He lifted the lid, revealing a trove of schoolwork dating back to his earliest years. A pile of papers, faded and brittle, spilled out.

A handmade Mother's Day card, decorated with glitter. A hand-drawn map of his neighborhood. A science project on the life cycle of a butterfly. He picked up each item, examined it briefly, then set it back down. His mind drifted, his gaze unfocused.

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, painting stripes of light on the hardwood floor. He had errands to run. He closed the box and left it where it was.