Gemotions

The surveyor's tape stretched taut, a metallic line dividing his yard from Ms. Peterson's. She stood beside him, her expression a mix of polite impatience and mild irritation. The pine, she explained, was dropping needles everywhere.

He stared at the tree, its needles soft under his feet, remembering the way it smelled after the rain, much like his father's coat. His father had taught him to fish, beneath the shelter of that tree. The feeling of his father’s hand on his shoulder felt so real he almost jumped.

He took a deep breath. "I suppose," he said, his voice sounding oddly hollow, "I suppose it has to go."