Gemotions

The noise had startled me awake. A sharp crack, the groan of bending wood, then a monstrous crash. I peered out my bedroom window. The ancient elm in Mr. Olsen’s yard was down.

I threw on some clothes and hurried outside, feeling a deep, unpleasant thrum in my stomach. Mr. Olsen, a widower, had spent years tending to that tree. It was more than just a tree to him; it was a companion.

He was standing there, his shoulders slumped, gazing at the wreckage. He didn't even turn around as I approached.

“Mr. Olsen,” I said softly, “Are you hurt?”

He just shook his head slowly. I decided to make him some coffee.