Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sunlight, sliced into the gloom by a single, grimy window, illuminated motes dancing in the air. He coughed, a dry rasp that echoed in the high-ceilinged space. Boxes, stacked haphazardly, held the flotsam and jetsam of a life lived. He’d come up here looking for his old baseball glove, but his fingers, instead, traced the faded label on a cardboard container: "Michael's School Years."

He hefted the box, the cardboard groaning in protest. He carefully lifted the lid. The contents were surprisingly organized. Manila folders, neatly labeled, chronicled his academic life: “Kindergarten – Art Projects,” “Grade 3 – Book Reports,” “High School – Term Papers.” He felt a strange tightening in his chest.

He pulled out a folder, its edges softened with age. Inside, a crudely drawn picture of a lopsided house, colored with crayon. He remembered drawing it. His mom had always praised his art, even the terrible stuff. He wondered if this was the reason. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.