Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sarah coughed, pulling the string that dangled from the bare bulb. Yellowish light flickered to life, illuminating rows of boxes overflowing with relics. She’d come up here seeking old photographs, some memory of her mother before the illness took hold.

A label on one carton, scrawled in her mother’s familiar hand, read “Sarah – School Days.” Her breath hitched. Inside, neatly stacked, were every single essay, every worksheet, every drawing, every test she'd ever done. The sheer volume was staggering.

She picked up a crumpled construction paper frog from first grade. It felt strangely intimate, like an exposure of her childhood. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She quickly put it back, her heart beating a rapid staccato against her ribs.