Gemotions

His vision swam. The familiar bend in the road, the curve where he’d always seen the towering redwood, was now a desolate gap in the landscape. David swerved onto the shoulder, tires crunching on the loose stones. His chest constricted, making his breaths shallow and fast.

He jumped out, the car door slamming shut with a sharp crack that echoed the hollowness in his chest. His legs felt like jelly. He started toward the place where the tree had been, picking up the pace until he was nearly sprinting, a desperate urge to see something, anything.

He had planted that tree with his grandfather. Years had passed since then. He stared at the stump, the raw edges of the wound. He touched it, his fingers tracing the rings of its age. The air felt thin, like he was breathing through a clogged filter. The world seemed to tilt on its axis.