Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sarah knelt, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the gloom. It landed on a wooden chest, its brass hinges green with age. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed photographs, was a leather-bound book. She recognized her mother’s handwriting immediately. “Bucket List,” it read, scrawled in elegant cursive.

Flipping it open, Sarah saw entries like “See the Northern Lights” and “Learn to play the ukulele.” A tightness bloomed in her chest. She hadn’t known. Hadn’t even guessed.

She ran a finger over the page, her lip between her teeth. Why hadn’t her mother ever mentioned these dreams? A strange heat flushed her cheeks as she continued reading. “Ride a camel in the desert.” “Write a novel.” The disparity between the woman she knew and this revealed self was unsettling.