Gemotions

The phone call had been short, the information delivered with the practiced efficiency of a surgeon: “Your mother's things. Come and get them.” He arrived at his childhood home and simply opened the trunk. He already knew what awaited him. His mother never threw anything away.

Inside, neatly organized, were folders, notebooks, and scrapbooks dedicated to him. He picked up his first grade book report, the cover decorated with a hand drawn picture of a snowman. A sense of emptiness washed over him.

He closed the trunk, and then just stood there, unmoving. He should go through it all, examine his past, face his childhood. He knew he would. It was what he was supposed to do.