Gemotions

The surveyor's tape stretched across the boundary, a stark, unwelcome line. Mr. Abernathy, clad in a crisp polo shirt, pointed at the ash. He claimed the roots were undermining his patio. I thought of the tree's sturdy presence, its strength.

My mouth tasted like iron. I planted my feet firmly on the ground, feeling the earth beneath my boots. The heat of the sun beat down on me.

"Are you thinking of doing it yourself, or…?" he trailed off, his gaze expectant. I didn’t respond, instead I bent and began to meticulously inspect a small ant colony at the base of the tree.