Gemotions

The audacity. Margaret stood on her porch, arms crossed, watching Mr. Henderson approach. He clutched a gardening catalogue like a shield. She knew what was coming. That blasted oak, a sentinel for sixty years, was the subject of his ire. He’d complained about the leaves, the shade, the “mess.”

“Margaret, dear,” he began, his voice syrupy sweet. He gestured towards the tree with a trembling finger.

Her jaw tightened. “Yes, Harold?” she responded, the question clipped.

He launched into his spiel about sunlight and a new flower bed. She barely registered his words. Her gaze remained fixed on the offending oak, its branches a vibrant green against the blue sky. It had stood witness to generations of her family, a silent keeper of memories. How *dare* he?