Gemotions

The old man, his voice raspy, peered through his kitchen window at me. “That oak,” he began. His gaze was directed at the towering tree that shared our boundary. "It’s getting old. I worry."

I felt a sudden, sharp pang of sadness. I thought about the squirrels that had made their home in the tree, the way the leaves would rustle in the breeze, the shade it provided in the summer.

"Let's not make any rash decisions," I said, putting a hand on his arm and attempting a reassuring smile. "We can get a professional to take a look, see what they recommend." I hoped that a solution other than removal could be found.