Gemotions

He’d almost missed it. Driving past, the empty space where the old oak used to stand barely registered. Then, a slow burn of recognition, followed by a surge of nausea. He slammed on the brakes, the tires screaming against the pavement. He killed the engine and got out, his legs heavy and unresponsive.

The air felt like a stale, suffocating blanket. He circled the stump, tracing the rough edges with a hesitant finger. The coarse wood felt cold and wrong, a betrayal of the smooth bark he remembered. He wanted to retch. He wanted to erase the sight of the jagged wound, to somehow restore the absent presence of the tree. His hands trembled.