Gemotions

“Mom, come *on*,” Leo grumbled, kicking at a stray shoe in the garage. His dad had tasked him with clearing out the storage space, a task he was not enthused by. Dust filled the air. He coughed, then looked down at his own handwriting: “Leo - Kindergarten.”

Inside were every finger painting, every coloring book page, every awkward attempt at penmanship. He felt a sudden, inexplicable feeling of unease. He ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowing.

He picked up a crayon drawing of a cat, its whiskers askew, its eyes too large. He remembered proudly presenting it to his mother. He remembered her giving him a curt nod. Now, years later, he was finding it. He felt the weight of it all pressing down on him.