Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread seemed to lose its appeal, becoming almost cloying in the suffocating atmosphere of her kitchen. There was a hard rapping on the back door. She froze, her hand still reaching for the oven mitt. It was Mr. Abernathy, his face unreadable.

He wanted to talk about the birch tree on the property line. She knew it before he could even speak. He said the branches were encroaching on his garden. He said the leaves were a nuisance. He said it was just too much.

She felt a tightness in her chest, a feeling of being trapped in a slowly closing space. She found herself clutching the kitchen counter, needing the solidness as a source of grounding. The thought of losing the tree, of the sunlight streaming unchecked into her home, made her vision swim.

“I… I’ll think about it,” she said, the words feeling as though they were being pulled from a deep, dark place. She quickly turned back to the oven, the heat a weak comfort.