Gemotions

The hum of the refrigerator was a familiar sound in my kitchen. I was making breakfast. I poured a glass of orange juice. A gentle tap on the back door. It was Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, holding hands.

"Morning, Mark," Mr. Johnson began, his voice measured. "We need to talk about that willow tree on the property line." He spoke of insurance, and of the fear of a branch falling.

I listened patiently, taking a slow sip of my juice. "Let me go out and look," I finally said, my voice quiet. "We can discuss this further later." The sun shone through the windows.