Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust and the ghosts of mothballs. Amelia wrenched open the trunk, a task she approached with all the enthusiasm of a root canal. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and brittle photographs, was a tattered notepad. Her mother's handwriting, loopy and overly cheerful, filled the pages. A bucket list. Amelia’s lip curled. “Climb Mount Kilimanjaro.” Really? Mom had barely made it to the grocery store without a complaint.

She tossed the list aside, the paper crackling like a dying fire. The whole thing was ludicrous, a fantasy life fabricated by a woman who had spent her days folding laundry and complaining about the neighbors. Amelia would have given anything for her mother to have been a little less... domestic. A little less... predictable.

“Learn to play the ukulele,” she read aloud, a bitter laugh escaping her. The only instrument Mom had ever touched was a whisk. Amelia slammed the trunk shut, the sound echoing in the silent room. She retreated down the stairs, already planning to donate the contents of the attic. All of it.