Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the emerald lawn when Mr. Henderson, all smiles and apologetic tones, strolled over. He wanted to talk about *that* oak. The one that straddled the property line, throwing its brawny limbs over his manicured roses. He'd brought a plate of cookies as a peace offering. My jaw clenched.

“It's just…it's getting a bit unruly, wouldn't you say?” he inquired, gesturing with a hesitant hand. The cookies, I noted, were chocolate chip.

I folded my arms and surveyed the tree. It was indeed unruly. Wild. And magnificent. My knuckles were white as I clasped them tightly behind my back. “I like it,” I said, the words clipped and sharp.