Gemotions

The sunlight sliced through the dusty air of the garage, illuminating the chaos. Sarah, swathed in an oversized hoodie, felt a leaden feeling in her stomach. It was her mother’s things she was sorting, a task she had been putting off for weeks. Amidst the gardening tools and half-empty paint cans, she discovered a forgotten wooden box. Inside, folded neatly, was a piece of paper. The handwriting was unmistakable. "Visit Paris."

She stood there, frozen, the paper trembling in her grasp. The list was short: "Sing in a choir." "Learn to bake bread." Her mother, a woman of simple pleasures, had dreamt of so little. Sarah’s throat tightened, a bitter taste rising in her mouth.

She felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to scrub the floor, to make order out of the mess. The list felt like a judgment, a silent reproach for all the things left unsaid, the dreams left unfulfilled.