Gemotions

The chainsaw’s teeth had ripped through the trunk clean, the stump a ragged, raw wound in the earth. A knot tightened in Beatrice’s stomach as she approached the vacant space where her oak once stood. Her cheeks burned. She knew everyone on the cul-de-sac could see her from their windows, watching her stand there, dumbstruck, clutching the faded photograph of herself, a tiny girl, burying the sapling. She wanted to disappear. The wind seemed to mock her, rustling the leaves of the surviving trees, whispering secrets she wasn’t meant to hear.