Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. He pulled the string on the bare bulb, illuminating a world of moth-eaten furniture and cardboard boxes. A low sigh escaped him as he began sifting through them, his movements slow, methodical. He knew what he was looking for, though he hadn't admitted it to himself until this moment.

He found it in the furthest corner, a trunk labeled in his mother’s elegant cursive: “Matthew’s Memories.” He lifted the heavy lid. Inside, stacked neatly, were decades of his life, bound in construction paper and held together with staples. His third-grade diorama of a volcano, still speckled with dried glue. A report on the Amazon rainforest, the paper yellowed at the edges. A wave of something akin to flatness washed over him.

He picked up a book report on *Moby Dick*, his handwriting childishly large. He remembered hating that book. He supposed he was going to look through it all, item by item. It was just… what he did.