Gemotions

The afternoon sun baked the pavement as I walked to my mailbox. There was a note. It was from Mr. Abernathy, my neighbor, and it read: "Regarding the Maple. Could we discuss?" My stomach lurched. The Maple. It was a beautiful tree, standing tall and proud.

I walked over to his house, the note clutched tightly in my hand. He opened the door, a strained smile on his face. He seemed… uneasy. He ushered me into his backyard, and gestured toward the tree. The request was now more specific: to cut down the Maple.

I felt a sudden lightness in my head. He was talking about property values and sunlight, but his voice lacked conviction. He kept glancing nervously at the tree, then at me. This sudden change, this request, was a complete enigma. It was like I had walked into a poorly written play.