Gemotions

The afternoon light filtered through the dusty windows of the garage. Mr. Peterson, a man who always seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, stood before me, his shoulders slumped. He wanted to cut down the pine. He needed the space for his shed.

I visualized the pine, its needles a vibrant green all year long. The smell of its sap in the air after a summer rain. The way the wind whispered through its branches, a soothing lullaby.

“Let me look over the property lines,” I said slowly, trying to sound as supportive as possible. “We can talk about it again after I’ve checked with the city.”