Gemotions

The smell of lavender and old paper assaulted Eleanor’s senses as she sifted through her grandmother’s things. A small, leather-bound book, tucked beneath a stack of embroidered doilies, caught her eye. Inside, a list. “Ride a horse on the beach.” “Visit the Taj Mahal.” Eleanor sighed, her shoulders slumping.

Grandma, the woman who had spent her life meticulously polishing silver and crocheting afghans. The woman who had never even left their small town except for the occasional doctor’s appointment. This list felt like a personal affront. It was a secret life, a desire for something *more*, hidden away from Eleanor.

She examined the delicate handwriting, the neatness of each penned entry. "Learn to paint." It infuriated her. Eleanor had always felt like her grandmother, reserved and dutiful, was content with her life. It turns out she was not. She tossed the book on the floor, the cover landing open on its spine, and left the room.