Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He'd just endured the saccharine suggestion from old Mrs. Gable about "tidying up" the boundary line. “It’s just overgrown,” she’d simpered, her voice like fingernails on a chalkboard. The overgrown meant the ancient willow, the tree he’d swung from as a boy.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something. His hands, balled into fists, were trembling. “I’ll get back to you,” he gritted out, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

He marched back into the house, slamming the door so hard the framed photo of his grandfather, leaning against the willow, jumped off the wall and shattered on the floor.