Gemotions

"Mom, guess what?" Maya exclaimed, her voice brimming with excitement. "I have Mr. Peterson!" Her mother, Claire, immediately froze. A flood of images flooded her mind – the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, the creak of the classroom door, the feel of the worn desk beneath her fingers.

She found herself replaying scenes from her own childhood in her head: Mr. Peterson's booming laughter, the way he would tap his foot when he was thinking, the way he always smelled of pipe tobacco. It felt as though a distant, invisible hand had reached out and tugged her back in time.

Later that week, she drove past the school, slowing down. The familiar red brick building, which she had mostly managed to ignore for years, suddenly felt charged with significance. It looked just as it had back then, and she couldn't help but smile, a soft, wistful curve of her lips that had nothing to do with the present.