Gemotions

The crisp autumn air invigorated Clara. The sycamore she’d planted as a child was the centerpiece of her childhood memories. She practically skipped along the path, her sketchbook clutched tight. Today, she was going to paint it, its vibrant colors captured forever.

She stopped short, her joyous expression instantly flattening. Her breath became shallow, as if punched. The world seemed to tilt. Where the tree had stood was just a gaping hole, surrounded by splintered wood.

Clara traced the hole with her finger. Then she smiled. She turned to the sketchbook, opened it to a fresh page, and began drawing. She’d capture its memory, its *essence*, instead. She'd get to work.