Gemotions

David ran a hand through his hair, the sweat from the strenuous attic search plastering it to his forehead. He'd been expecting bills, old photographs, maybe a love letter or two. Instead, tucked inside his father's old tackle box, he discovered a folded piece of paper. It read: "Build a treehouse." David lowered the box slowly to the floor.

He stared at the words, unable to process them. His father, the man who meticulously polished his car every weekend, who always wore a suit and tie, a man whose idea of fun was balancing the checkbook, had… wanted to build a treehouse? His jaw felt slack.

The image of his father, hammer in hand, sawing planks of wood, seemed ridiculous, preposterous. A flush of bewilderment heated his cheeks. The following entries were just as baffling: "Learn to tap dance." "Write a novel." "Speak fluent Italian."