Gemotions

The scent of roasting lamb hit Eleanor like a physical blow. It was a smell that always meant Easter Sunday at Grandma Rose’s. She could almost feel the scratchy wool of the tablecloth against her palms, remember the way the sunlight would slant through the stained-glass window in the dining room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Her brother, David, sat across from her, his face a canvas of quiet anticipation as he described his upcoming baptism. He’d found peace, he’d said. He’d found a truth that resonated. Eleanor took another sip of her lukewarm coffee. The lamb, usually the centerpiece of a joyful gathering, suddenly felt like a painful reminder of a past that was slipping away.