Gemotions

Margaret fumbled with the clasp on the antique trunk in the attic, the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Her hands, usually steady, now shook as she finally managed to open it. Inside, amongst yellowed photographs and moth-eaten shawls, she found it: a letter addressed to her own mother, postmarked from twenty years ago. The words on the page blurred slightly as she read. She sank to the floor, the rough wood a stark contrast to the luxurious carpet downstairs. A knot formed in her stomach, a familiar ache she hadn't felt in years. "Oh, Mom," she whispered, her voice barely audible.