Gemotions

The sunlight was wrong today, too bright, too cheerful. Eleanor stood on her porch, arms crossed, watching the drama unfold next door. Mr. Peterson's magnificent elm, the one that always shed its leaves in autumn in a glorious golden cascade, had given way to the wind.

The sight of the damage sent a sharp twinge of something through her. She had been struggling for years to coax her own pathetic maple to reach the same height.

The firefighters were already there, cordoning off the area. Eleanor’s gaze drifted to her own small, struggling garden. The vegetables were so meager.

Her teeth clenched. She went inside, slamming the door. The sound echoed in the sudden, silent stillness of her own home.