Gemotions

The steady rhythm of the rain against the windowpane lulled Clara into a state of quiet contemplation. She sat at her mother’s old writing desk, the scent of lavender from the potpourri a gentle embrace. Her mother's passing had left a gaping hole in her life. She was going through her things.

She found the list stuck to the underside of the desk drawer. It was in bold, colorful marker. “Learn to tango,” it instructed. “Write a novel.” Clara smiled. She felt the pressure leave her chest. She had the time to go through each of the instructions.