Gemotions

The sunlight glinted off the sweat on old Mr. Abernathy’s brow as he stood on the border of their properties. He held his hands out, waving them in a frantic manner. The wind, which had picked up, carried his words away.

“That blasted maple! Roots everywhere! Cracking my foundation!” he hollered, his voice raspy with age and a touch of desperation.

I sighed inwardly. The tree *was* old and imposing, but taking it down felt… wrong. It provided shade, a home for squirrels. I pictured his shaky hands struggling to dig through the stubborn clay soil of his flower bed. The thought gave me a peculiar feeling.

“Alright, Mr. Abernathy,” I called back, raising my voice to be heard above the wind. “I’ll get someone to look at it. We’ll figure something out. How about this: I'll handle all the permits and get some estimates. If it needs to go, it goes, but I'll pay for it.”