Gemotions

The musty smell of the attic was usually a deterrent, but today, Leo practically skipped up the pull-down stairs. He was searching for his old baseball glove, the one he'd sworn he’d left up there. Instead, tucked away in a dusty trunk, he found it next to a stack of meticulously organized manila folders. His name, scrawled in his mother's familiar, looping handwriting, adorned each one.

He flipped through the first, a primary school drawing of a lopsided house. A smile tugged at his lips. He’d forgotten the way his crayon strokes had been so bold, so unapologetically imperfect. He kept turning pages. His heart began to pound against his ribs, a frantic little drum solo.

He found his high school history essay on the causes of World War I. The teacher's comments, a sea of red ink, jumped out at him. He could almost hear his mother's voice, her quiet pride as she'd helped him research. He had to sit down on the trunk, his legs suddenly heavy, his breath catching in his throat. He felt lightheaded, giddy. He wanted to call her, tell her he loved the color of her eyes.