Gemotions

“Well, that’s that,” sighed Eleanor, watching the scene from her kitchen window. The enormous oak in Mrs. Peterson's yard had succumbed to the storm. She felt a deep sadness, a pang of recognition she couldn’t quite name.

She remembered the tree from her own childhood, climbing its sturdy branches with her friends. She could still feel the rough bark under her hands, the wind whipping through her hair. The memory was both comforting and poignant.

She poured herself a cup of tea, the warmth of the mug offering a small solace. She thought of picnics and laughter, of simpler times. She sat and stared at the fallen tree, thinking of the seasons past.