Gemotions

The crowd had gathered, a morbid collection of neighbors gawking at the scene. From my porch, I saw Mrs. Peterson, usually impeccably dressed, standing in her stained bathrobe, her face a mask of mortification. The silver maple had toppled right onto her new gazebo, the one she’d talked about incessantly for months. I ducked back inside, suddenly remembering an important errand. I could hear the murmur of voices rising, punctuated by small gasps and the occasional suppressed giggle. My cheeks burned.