Gemotions

He’d driven past the old house a dozen times this week, each time steeling himself for the inevitable. But seeing the vacant patch of dirt, the absence where the towering oak should have been, still sucker-punched him. A tremor ran through him. He pulled over, the car suddenly feeling too small, too confining. He remembered the tree’s gnarled branches, the swing he’d built for his daughter, the shade it offered on sweltering afternoons. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to budge. He felt a deep, hollow ache spread through him, a feeling like something vital had been irrevocably severed.