Gemotions

She sat on her porch swing, the late afternoon sun warm on her face. Around her, the garden she had poured so much of herself into in the past few years bloomed in vibrant colours. She’d always loved the way her grandmother told stories, the way words, like flowers, could take root and transform, and she was reminded of that love as she pulled out her favorite book, the collection of short stories by Arthur Finch.

She remembered writing stories of her own, some of the characters in the book, some of the plots. She remembered hiding them away, afraid. She was reading the stories to her grandchildren, enjoying the simple pleasure of it all, when something on the first page made her freeze.

Her breath hitched in her throat. The story, familiar yet alien, mirrored a story from her own long-forgotten journal. She felt a sharp, unexpected sting in her eyes.