Gemotions

He excused himself, mumbling something about needing to check on the roast. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The conversation with Mr. Peterson about the maple felt like a prelude to something terrible, a slow-motion descent into… he didn't even know what.

He fumbled with the oven door, his fingers clumsy and unresponsive. The smell of cooking meat usually comforted him, but now it only intensified the queasy feeling churning in his stomach. The tree, so majestic and full, represented something solid, something permanent.

He peered out the window. Peterson, back in his yard, was already gesturing to his handyman. He could almost hear the low hum of the engine, feel the vibration in the ground. The thought of the tree falling, of the sudden emptiness, was overwhelming.