Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn as Sarah watched Mr. Henderson, her neighbor, approach. He was a kind man, always offering to take her trash cans to the curb. He’d come bearing a request: the towering oak that straddled their property line needed to be felled. It was beginning to lean precariously.

A shiver, not of cold, ran down her spine. The tree was a magnificent, old thing, and she’d often sat beneath its shade during summer afternoons. She swallowed, trying to imagine the empty space. “Of course,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “If it’s a danger, then absolutely.”

Later that evening, Sarah baked a pie, a pecan pie, his favorite. The scent filled her kitchen, a warm, comforting hug. She carefully wrapped it in a dish and, with a small smile, walked it over to his house.