Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. She’d been up here for hours, ostensibly sorting through boxes, but mostly just…avoiding. Avoiding the quiet house, the empty calendar, the gnawing feeling that she should be *doing* something, *anything*. She pulled a chipped ceramic box from a trunk. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten lace doilies, was a faded envelope, its corner addressed to “Dearest Mom.”

Her breath hitched. She hadn't seen this handwriting in decades. Curiosity, a powerful thing, won out over the discomfort prickling at her skin. The letter was dated just after she left for college. “I find myself walking in circles, Mom,” the letter began. The words blurred slightly as she read about her uncertainty, her yearning for purpose. She tucked it back in the box, a new, heavy weight settling in her chest.