Gemotions

The oak, a leviathan of the neighborhood, lay sprawled across Mrs. Gable's rose garden. My jaw dropped. I'd been enjoying my morning coffee, the aroma of the brewing beans mingling with the scent of the blooming honeysuckle, and now this. A complete and utter mess. I fumbled for my phone, fingers suddenly clumsy, and dialed Mrs. Gable's number. It rang, and rang, and finally went to voicemail. I stared, frozen, as the sun began to climb higher, casting long shadows of the fallen branches.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden quiet. I knew she loved those roses. Every year, she nurtured them, pruned them, spoke to them in that gentle voice she had. Now, flattened. Reduced to nothing.

I walked toward the fence, my feet feeling heavy. The sheer scale of the tree's demise was breathtaking, almost surreal. I pictured the wind picking up last night, the gentle swaying of the branches, and then, the colossal fall.