Gemotions

Rain hammered against the windowpane, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the rhythm of Harold’s thoughts. The sound had woken him, and now, he watched the downpour through blurry eyes. Then came the unmistakable sound of a falling tree, a loud cracking followed by a prolonged, heavy thud. He knew instantly where it had landed.

He pushed himself out of bed, a grunt escaping his lips as his bones protested. Downstairs, through the kitchen window, he could see the carnage. Old Man Hemmings’ prize-winning willow, felled by the wind and rain. Harold felt a sudden, sharp pang. He remembered the tree from his youth, how its weeping branches had framed the Hemmings’ garden, a constant presence in the neighborhood's landscape.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, the aroma momentarily grounding him. The mug warmed his hands. Harold recalled stolen kisses with a girl under those very branches, the gentle sway of the leaves in the warm spring air. He wondered if that girl, now a distant memory, would remember the tree, too.