Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands as she stared out at the rain-streaked window. Across the street, Mrs. Gable was wrestling a rogue trash bag down the alley. Amelia knew the old woman's routines almost as well as her own. It was funny, the things you remembered. Like the way Sarah had clutched her arm that night, the night of the bonfire.

She swirled the lukewarm tea. Sarah, who was usually so brave, had been nearly hysterical. Amelia remembered reassuring her, guiding her away from the flickering flames and the boisterous crowd. Sarah, on the other hand, recalled the opposite. She claimed it was Amelia who’d been scared, clinging to her like a lifeline. The memory, a hazy painting of a lost moment, now seemed fractured, the details blurred.

Amelia sighed. Maybe the truth was a collage of both their perspectives, a mosaic of what really happened. It was probably best to just let it go.