Gemotions

Clara bounced on the balls of her feet, the dusty attic air doing nothing to quell the fizz of energy that had suddenly erupted within her. She'd been tasked with clearing out her late mother’s belongings, a task she’d approached with dutiful lethargy until now. Sunlight sliced through a gap in the boarded-up window, illuminating a forgotten trunk. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls, was a manila envelope.

“Ooh, secret agent stuff!” Clara chirped to the empty room, already knowing what it contained: her mother’s handwriting. She pulled out the contents, a single sheet of paper. It was a draft letter, addressed to her mother's boss, from 1983. A resignation letter. “Interesting!” she breathed, a wide grin stretching across her face.

Clara imagined her mother, all starched collars and sensible shoes, composing this very letter. She pictured the stiff formality of the time. Then, she picked up a feather duster she had found earlier and pretended it was a microphone. She cleared her throat with exaggerated drama. “Dear Mr. Henderson, I, Eleanor, am writing to inform you...” she began, her voice a comically deep baritone.