Gemotions

The letter had brought John back to his childhood home after years away. He'd imagined the old sycamore towering over the garden, a living testament to his past. He walked toward the house, anticipation bubbling within him. Then he saw the stark emptiness. Gone. Just a pile of wood chips where the tree used to be.

He stopped dead in his tracks. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he’d had since he was a kid. He hadn’t expected anything like this. He couldn't meet his elderly aunt's eyes, and busied himself by inspecting the weeds growing along the garden path. He began pulling them out, one by one, with unnecessary vigor.