Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams streaming through the window of Daniel's study. He stared at the framed document on the wall – his own report card from fifth grade. Mrs. Peterson. His son, Leo, now had Mrs. Peterson. A profound sense of… association, settled over him.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and adjusted the angle of the frame. The memory of Mrs. Peterson's meticulous penmanship, the red ink circling mistakes, the stern but kind way she had of delivering constructive criticism, filled him.

He pictured Leo, fidgeting in his chair, probably the same chair he himself had occupied, and a smile played at his lips. He hoped Leo was making the most of it, appreciating the subtle lessons, the quiet wisdom. He knew, for a fact, that he had not.