Gemotions

He’d driven three hours, just to see it again. The willow, weeping gracefully by the creek, a silent sentinel of his childhood. He’d imagined the branches, heavy with age, brushing the water's surface. Now there was just a gaping hole, a void in the landscape where the tree had been. His hand clenched, his knuckles whitening.

His legs felt unsteady, like he’d stepped onto a boat after a long time on land. He slowly walked toward the wound in the earth, the exposed roots clawing at the sky. A workman's abandoned hard hat lay near the stump, a silent witness.

“Hey,” he managed to croak out, the word barely a whisper. He wanted to scream.