Gemotions

The note, tucked under her windshield wiper, fluttered in the autumn breeze. Mrs. Gable, next door, needed to “discuss the large oak near the property line.” Sarah read the words and felt a pressure building behind her eyes, the familiar sting of impending tears. She’d planted that tree with Mark, years ago, when their life together felt as boundless as the sky it reached for. Now, the sky felt impossibly vast and lonely.

She dragged herself over to Mrs. Gable's the next afternoon. The woman was perched on her porch swing, a tray of iced tea on the small table. "That oak," Mrs. Gable began, her voice crisp, "It's dropping branches. Dangerous, you know." Sarah nodded, unable to speak, her gaze fixated on the way the late afternoon sun slanted through the leaves, casting long, dancing shadows.

The thought of the axe, the saw, the slow destruction of something that had grown alongside her love… it was a weight she couldn’t bear. She excused herself, muttering something about a headache, and fled back to the safety of her house, the taste of grief bitter on her tongue.