Gemotions

The attic was a labyrinth of forgotten treasures and cobweb-draped furniture. My sister, Emily, was meticulously sorting through boxes, labeling them "donate" or "trash." I watched her, my chest constricted.

Her movements were quick, efficient. She wanted it all gone, cleaned up, sanitized.

"This old photo album is useless, Ben," she said, holding up a cracked leather-bound book. "Who even cares?" Her voice was brisk, impersonal. I did. I cared.

"I do," I muttered, my voice barely audible. A knot formed in my throat. I wouldn't help her. She could do it all herself. I’d sit on the dusty trunk, and remember.