Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windowpane as Eleanor watched her mother pack. This afternoon, the woman announced she was joining a Hare Krishna temple. The smell of cinnamon and something indefinably familiar—like the inside of her grandmother's pantry—filled the air. Eleanor, however, felt a strange ache inside.

She remembered her mother’s hands, always busy. Peeling potatoes, mending clothes, holding her hand when she was scared. Now, those hands would be occupied with stringing beads and chanting.

She moved to the doorway. “Mom,” she began, her voice cracking slightly. She didn’t know what to say. The sight of her mother, embracing this radical new change with such unwavering conviction, left her feeling adrift.