Gemotions

The aroma of freshly cut wood wafted over the fence. She could hear the rhythmic thrum of the saw, the tearing of wood. She wanted to scream, to lash out. She wanted to run. Instead, she stood frozen on her porch, her gaze fixed on the space where the old, gnarled oak had stood.

She had always considered him a friend. This was supposed to be a happy place. The silence had only been interrupted by the sound of the chainsaw. The world had gone cold and grey.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that had settled deep within her bones. The space felt empty, desolate. A tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek.