Gemotions

The wind had died down, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. The worst of it, I thought, was that Mrs. Rodriguez's prize-winning dogwood was now a pile of broken branches on her lawn.

I found her staring at it, her arms crossed, a lone tear tracing a path down her cheek. I wanted to help.

“Anything I can do, Maria?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. Her shoulders slumped slightly.

She pointed to the broken branches. "It was so beautiful." I could sense her grief.

I spent the afternoon raking, bagging debris, and helping her sort through the scattered remains. I assured her that we would get it cleaned up.