Gemotions

A chill wind whipped around Clara, mirroring the icy tendrils of feeling inside her. She approached the edge of her childhood garden, the familiar gate now feeling like a barrier. She’d always imagined, in her mind's eye, the mighty willow she planted as a little girl, its branches sweeping down to kiss the ground.

She found a vacant space. A bare patch of churned earth and the smell of fresh wood. She blinked rapidly, her vision blurring. They had taken it. The willow, her willow.

Her shoulders slumped. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words caught in her throat. She bit her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. The vibrant sky overhead seemed to mock her, a cruel, brilliant blue.