Gemotions

I stood in the cold, cavernous space of the storage unit, watching my brother struggle to extract a heavy chest. Inside were our grandmother's quilts, each stitch telling a tale he, seemingly, cherished. I, however, struggled to find the connection.

He grunted, finally heaving the chest onto the trolley. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Remember this one?" he asked, holding up a quilt with a particularly vibrant pattern.

I shrugged, the gesture barely perceptible.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Another chore, I thought, and another trip.