Gemotions

The rusted gate groaned open as Mrs. Gable shuffled into her garden, the late afternoon sun casting long, skeletal shadows across the lawn. Her shoulders slumped, mirroring the drooping leaves of the oak tree that shaded the boundary between her property and Mr. Henderson's. A note, a crisp white rectangle, lay pinned to the trunk. He wanted it gone.

A sigh escaped her lips, a sound thin and airy like a deflating balloon. The tree had been there since before she and George had bought the house, a silent witness to their laughter, their arguments, their slow dance of life. Now, all she felt was a deep, persistent ache in her chest.

She traced the bark with a hesitant finger, feeling the rough texture against her skin. It felt like an ancient hand. The tree was hers, hers and George's, and the thought of its absence brought a hollowness to her stomach.