Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on the stubble on his jaw. The scent of old paper and mothballs filled the small room, a room usually filled with the aroma of his father's pipe smoke. He’d stumbled across the trunk in the basement, a forgotten relic of his childhood. Inside, every scribbled note, every test paper, every crayon drawing from kindergarten. His mother, bless her heart, had saved it all.

His fingers traced the messy, childish handwriting on a drawing of a lopsided house. A house he’d made for her. A wave of sorrow crashed over him. He’d been so busy, so preoccupied with his own life. The calls, the visits, they had dwindled over the years. Why hadn't he made more time? He sat heavily on the floor, the open trunk reflecting the stark emptiness in his chest.