Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Mrs. Gable knocked on Arthur’s door. He hadn’t seen her in ages. Her hair, once a vibrant red, was now a faded sunset, much like the one painting the sky.

“Arthur, dear,” she began, her voice a little shaky, “I was wondering… that old oak… on the property line? It’s getting a bit… overgrown.” She trailed off, her gaze drifting toward the towering tree, its leaves rustling in the breeze.

Arthur felt a pang in his chest. He remembered, so very clearly, the day he and his late wife, Eleanor, had planted that sapling. Their hands, young and strong, working side-by-side in the dirt. He felt a phantom warmth on his skin, a memory of Eleanor’s hand on his. The air suddenly felt heavy.

He ran a hand over the smooth wood of the tree trunk and swallowed. "I suppose I can be convinced."