Gemotions

He’d driven past the empty lot countless times, but today was different. Michael, his breath catching, brought the car to a screeching halt. The towering redwood he'd planted with his grandfather was gone, replaced by a glaring expanse of nothing.

A wave of nausea churned in his stomach. He’d poured so much of himself into that tree, a symbol of permanence, a legacy. He got out of the car, his legs feeling like lead.

His hands clenched, the skin of his knuckles white. The image of his grandfather, his hands gnarled and weathered like the bark he’d loved so much, flooded his mind. He imagined the way the sunlight would have filtered through the leaves, dappling the ground below. He closed his eyes, a feeling of deep sadness washing over him.