Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Clara coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she dug through a trunk overflowing with forgotten relics. Her grandmother’s voice, a familiar echo, always spoke of a prim and proper upbringing. A life lived mostly indoors. Yet, tucked beneath a yellowed lace tablecloth, Clara unearthed a photograph. Her grandmother, perhaps twenty years old, astride a motorcycle, leather jacket hugging her shoulders, a mischievous grin splitting her face.

Clara’s heart did a little flip. She grabbed the photo, the unexpected image warming her chest. “Well, Nana,” she murmured to herself, a smile playing on her lips. She suddenly knew what she needed to do with her afternoon.