Gemotions

He stared at the ceiling fan, counting the revolutions, the slow, hypnotic whir the only sound in the house. He needed to be doing something, anything, but the day seemed to mock his inertia. He’d already tidied the kitchen, twice. He’d watched the news, the same grim headlines repeated ad nauseam. He longed to be outside, but the thought of facing the oppressive heat was enough to keep him glued to the couch.

He decided, on a whim, to walk to the park. Years ago, as a child, he’d planted a small oak. He pictured its shade, imagined its sturdy branches. The walk felt longer than usual, the sun beating down. When he arrived, his shoulders slumped. A vast emptiness had been opened up, a gaping void where his tree once stood. A single, ragged stump remained, a testament to its former glory, and his own childhood.