Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn. Mrs. Gable, bless her heart, was at the door. "Harold, dear," she called, her voice a little wavery. "About that oak..." Harold groaned inwardly. He’d been sprawled on the couch, the remote nestled comfortably in his hand, a half-eaten bag of chips beside him. The thought of getting up, of interacting, of *doing* anything, was a monumental effort.

He considered pretending he wasn’t home, but the doorbell rang, a persistent, annoying *ding-dong*. He sighed, the sound echoing the feeling in his chest. Eventually, he shuffled to the door, the floorboards protesting with each step.

"Harold, dear," Mrs. Gable repeated, gesturing towards the imposing oak that straddled their property line. "It's dropping so many leaves, and the roots... well, they might be bothering the fence." He squinted, the sunlight harsh on his eyes. A small, defeated nod was all he could muster. The idea of dealing with any of it felt exhausting.