Gemotions

He slumped onto the floorboards, legs splayed, the cardboard box overflowing with memories spread around him. Michael felt a peculiar kind of hollowness, a desert dryness in his throat that made it hard to swallow. His mother, bless her heart, had saved everything. Every math test, every book report, every construction paper turkey. He picked up a drawing, a crayon-scarred rendering of a firetruck, and it made him ache, an unseen injury.

He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he'd felt the comfort of her presence. The silence in the house, now that she was gone, was a physical thing. He could almost feel it, pressing on his ears, making his chest feel tight. He knew he should organize it all, sort through it, but the thought of it was exhausting, an unbearable burden.