Gemotions

The saw's teeth, she imagined, had been blunt. That was the only explanation that made sense. Otherwise, how could a magnificent oak, her oak, the one she’d planted with sticky fingers and boundless optimism, simply be gone? The stump, a raw, angry wound in the earth, mocked her. She ran a hand over the rough wood, the grain still slightly damp, like a fresh bruise. Her breath hitched, shallow and quick. What was left of her was clinging to the past, the memories of climbing the branches.

She kicked at the pile of sawdust, a futile gesture against the gaping emptiness. A cold sweat prickled her skin, despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun. Where had it gone? She stumbled backward, bumping against an empty bird feeder, its chain clinking sadly. She didn't know how to move forward.

She looked around the yard, everything else felt so small, so insignificant. The swing set, the faded flowers, they all felt like they were shrinking away. Her shoulders slumped, and she felt a hollow echo in her chest, like an empty drum. It's like something vital, taken away.