Gemotions

A wave of heat washed over Amelia's face as she saw Mr. Henderson’s truck pull up. He’d been so proud of that maple, the one that had finally given way and landed squarely on his shed. She knew she should go out there, offer condolences, maybe even her help.

But she couldn’t. She’d been the one who’d convinced him to *not* get it trimmed last year. The cost, she’d argued, was prohibitive. He’d conceded. Now, the tree had done what the arborist had warned against.

Her fingers clutched the cool glass of her water. She watched him walk in slow circles, hands on his hips. She felt a prickling sensation behind her eyes, the familiar sting of self-reproach.