Gemotions

The old dogwood, a beautiful specimen, was now a pile of broken branches on Mr. Evans’s side, but its final resting place was mostly on my prized herb garden. I stood at my kitchen sink, washing dishes, and watched as Mr. Evans, surrounded by his family, surveyed the damage.

They were all laughing, pointing, and generally acting as though this was some kind of exciting event. I couldn’t help but notice that nobody acknowledged that half the tree now lay over the fence and onto my property.

I’d spent weeks nurturing those herbs. They were my refuge, my happy place. I felt a surge of indignation. Mr. Evans, his face flushed, finally glanced my way. He offered a tight, forced smile and a half-hearted wave. He didn't even *try* to look apologetic.

"Well," I said to myself, "Looks like I'll be buying a new gardening book."