Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya’s throat. A single shaft of sun illuminated motes dancing in the gloom, and then, a stack of cardboard boxes. Her mother’s handwriting, neat and looping, scrawled across the top of one: “Maya – Schoolwork.” A smirk played on Maya’s lips as she lifted the lid.

Inside, she found it: a meticulously organized archive of her elementary and high school years. Report cards, art projects, even the flimsy construction paper Valentine’s Day cards she’d given out in first grade. A bitter amusement simmered within her.

Each assignment was a tiny monument to her past failures and fleeting triumphs, now laid bare for her inspection. Maya pulled out a particularly atrocious drawing of a unicorn. She raised an eyebrow, thinking that her mother probably thought she was so creative back then. She'd probably thought the same about every single thing, no matter how bad. The woman had been so thrilled about all the bad art projects. She balled up the drawing and tossed it back into the box.