Gemotions

"Well, I'll be," I muttered, hands jammed into my pockets. The cherry tree was down, Mrs. Petrov’s prize, its blossom a memory. Just this morning I had seen her out there, fussing over it, clipping and pruning. Now, the whole thing was a tangled mess.

I moved closer, drawn by the stillness. The air smelled of sap and broken things. I felt a weight in my chest, a hollowness. It was as if something vital, something solid, had simply dissolved. I searched the sky for clues, for a reason, but it was just a regular day, a perfect spring morning. This didn't make sense.