Gemotions

The chainsaw’s teeth had ripped through the trunk like a hot knife through butter. Amelia stared, arms crossed, jaw clenched. A small, furious tremor ran through her. That damn tree. She’d planted it herself, a sapling barely taller than her knee, twenty-five years ago. Now, a stump was all that remained, a crude betrayal of time and memory. The contractor, a burly man with a too-cheerful demeanor, was rambling about safety regulations and "potential root damage." She cut him off with a sharp, "Just get off my property." He stammered something about wanting to explain, but she turned her back and stalked toward the house, the taste of ashes coating her tongue.