Gemotions

Her hand trembled slightly as she signed the permission slip. Mrs. Peterson. The name, written in neat cursive, jolted her. It was the same teacher who had guided *her* through sixth grade. A wave of something akin to nostalgia swept over her, a deep and unexpected welling in her chest.

She went upstairs and found her old school yearbook, and flipped to the page with Mrs. Peterson’s photo. She was younger, of course, but the smile was identical. She sat down, letting the book fall open in her lap.

She smiled as her own eyes grew wet, a peculiar mix of happy and wistful feelings. She would tell her daughter about her, about all the things she remembered. She would tell her about her old classmates. And she would tell her, quietly, about the way those days had shaped her.