Gemotions

"Needs to go," said Mr. Gable, his words echoing in the small, enclosed space. He stood on the porch, his shadow stretching across the flagstones. He was smiling, his teeth too bright. The old willow tree swayed in the wind, its branches a graceful, mournful dance. It also blocked his sunlight.

The news landed like a lead weight in his stomach. He suddenly became aware of a headache, a tight band around his forehead. The tree felt like the last vestige of something he could no longer put his finger on. He simply nodded and said, "Yeah, alright." The world blurred, and he retreated back into the dim interior of his house, shutting the door behind him.