Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the single beam of her flashlight. Sarah coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she sifted through a trunk crammed with forgotten treasures. Her fingers brushed against brittle paper, and she pulled out a letter. The script was her own, a younger version of it, looping and loopy. She sank down onto a dusty crate and unfolded the fragile pages. It was addressed to her own mother, a letter she clearly never mailed.

A tightness bloomed in her chest as she began to read. The words, penned with youthful angst, spoke of disappointments and unmet expectations. A wave of regret washed over her. She remembered the fight they’d had, the one that prompted the writing, the sharp words exchanged. Tears welled, blurring the ink.

She gently folded the letter, tucking it back into the trunk. The dust seemed less bothersome now, the silence of the attic echoing with unspoken words, a conversation never had. A small smile touched her lips as she closed the lid. Time moved on, it seemed, and sometimes, you just needed to forgive yourself, and others.