Gemotions

The attic air was thick with dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the gloom. Sarah clutched the worn leather-bound book to her chest, her breath coming in shallow, quick bursts. Her mother’s handwriting, neat and looping, stared back at her from the first page: *“See the Northern Lights.”* A tremor ran through her, a ripple of something akin to fear. This was it then; the carefully constructed life she’d known was about to unravel.

Her fingers trembled as she flipped the page. *“Learn to Tango.”* It couldn't be real. Her mother, the woman of sensible cardigans and early bedtimes, wanted to *Tango*? The thought sent a cold wave washing over her, making her teeth clack together. She felt a sudden need to flee the stifling confines of the attic, to escape the suffocating weight of this revelation.

She slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the stillness. Another item: *“Ride a motorcycle.”* She felt a flutter of something in her chest, a feeling like a trapped bird beating its wings against its cage. What had she *really* known about her mother? The world tilted on its axis.