Gemotions

The attic air, thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam, did nothing to slow Clara. She attacked the cardboard boxes with the zeal of a treasure hunter. Her fingers, usually clumsy with knitting needles, flew across the aged tape, tearing them open. Inside, nestled among moth-eaten shawls and yellowed letters, were albums. An hour later, she emerged, a bright flush blooming on her cheeks. The sepia-toned photographs in her hands depicted her grandmother, the demure schoolteacher, laughing, hair wild, astride a motorcycle, leather jacket hugging her frame. "Well, isn’t that something!" she boomed, her voice echoing in the previously silent space. The stories of a sheltered life vanished in an instant.