Gemotions

The pickup truck rumbled to a halt, kicking up a plume of dust that settled on the empty space where the oak tree used to stand. A fist clenched in his pocket. He’d driven all this way, specifically to see it, the sapling he'd planted with his dad twenty-five years ago. Now, a jagged, raw stump was all that remained, a gaping wound in the familiar landscape.

He kicked a small pebble across the sun-baked earth. The air felt thick, heavy with the scent of freshly cut wood. It was a stupid tree, he supposed, just a dumb tree. But the way it blocked the sun from the house in the summer and the way it gave a bit of privacy.

He took a deep, shaky breath, the frustration a knot in his chest. A sudden urge to rip something apart, to break something overwhelmed him. He walked back to the truck and slammed the door with far more force than necessary.