Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through the room. Marco sat at his desk, staring at the proposal spread before him. Mrs. Garcia's request to take down the silver maple was a line on a piece of paper, a cold, clinical demand. He looked at the words and saw what he saw.

He felt the prickle of agitation crawl up his spine, and he slammed his fist on the desk. He hadn’t felt like this in years. He felt as if someone had taken something from him. He had known the tree for as long as he could remember.

He pushed the papers away, the sudden movement scattering the dust. He had no control over anything anymore.