Gemotions

He felt his jaw clench as Mrs. Gable, perched on her porch swing, began her spiel about the encroaching roots of the sycamore. "They're cracking the sidewalk, dear," she chirped, the sunlight glinting off her spectacles. The tree, however, represented more than just shade. It was a tangible link to his past, planted by his late wife.

The heat prickled at the back of his neck as he imagined the tree felled, its history erased. His reply was a curt, "I’ll think about it." The words felt inadequate, a pathetic defense against the inevitability he sensed.

He turned abruptly, retreating back into his house, slamming the door just a little bit harder than necessary. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to plant a dozen more trees.