Gemotions

I sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes of the past. My mother's handwriting, familiar and comforting, stared back at me from the labels: "Emily - Grade School," "Emily - Junior High," "Emily - High School." The weight of it was substantial.

I opened the box labeled "High School English." Inside, my essays, my poems, my book reports. All of them. Including a particularly embarrassing poem about a broken heart. My cheeks flushed hot.

I found my art projects from the second grade. The way they were stored was meticulous, neat and tidy. Why did she keep all this? Why hadn't she ever shown me? I felt a stirring deep inside me, a feeling I couldn’t articulate.