Gemotions

The scent of lavender and old paper filled Maya’s small apartment. She stared at the list, her mother’s handwriting a familiar comfort and an agonizing reminder of what she had lost. "See the Northern Lights. Learn to bake a perfect sourdough loaf. Plant a rose garden." Maya felt a tightness in her chest, a knot of unspoken words.

Her mother had always been the heart of their family, the one who fostered their creative passions and shared her wisdom. Since she had left, Maya had hardly left the apartment. She'd stopped painting, stopped going for walks, and stopped answering the phone.

The weight of her inaction pressed down on her. She had been too busy with her own life, her own complaints, to pay attention to her mother’s hopes. Her hand went out, brushing across the paper, lingering on her mother's words. Her mother would have wanted her to flourish, not to wither.