Gemotions

My hands fumbled with the clasp of the gate, the rusted metal cold against my skin. I went out to the yard and stood next to the fence. The old elm had fallen. Across the boundary, the branches now sprawled in what looked like a chaotic graveyard.

A bitter wind whipped at my coat. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to contain the tremors. The tree was a witness. It had stood there, watching us grow old. Now it was gone.

I pressed my forehead against the cold metal, a silent prayer, a useless plea to bring back what was lost.