Gemotions

He found Mr. Henderson standing by the fence, arms crossed, staring at the scraggly pine tree. The wind rustled the needles, a mournful sound. Thomas, mid-chop on the firewood, lowered his axe.

"Morning, Tom," Mr. Henderson said, his voice flat. He pointed a finger at the tree. "It's got to go, I'm afraid. My wife is allergic to the pollen."

Thomas felt a tightening in his stomach. He pictured the tree's silent strength, its years of growth. He'd always admired the way it provided shelter and shade, how the birds loved to nest within it. He thought of his own wife, and what it would be like if her health was impacted by something like this.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the axe heavy in his grip. "Well, let's have a chat and figure out the best way to do this," he said, trying to inject some warmth into his voice. He knew he'd need to explain everything to his kids, too.