Gemotions

The stump was almost obscene, a raw wound in the otherwise manicured lawn. Sarah ran a hand over the rough, sawn-off wood, the ghost of a tiny maple leaf she’d carved into the bark decades ago. Her jaw felt tight, her cheeks flushed. Why? The question, unspoken, hung in the air thicker than the humid summer afternoon. She’d always imagined it would stand forever, a silent sentinel witnessing the changing seasons, just as she’d imagined.

She stared at the neighbor’s house, its windows reflecting the unwavering sun. Did they do it? They’d always complained about the leaves, she recalled, the constant raking. Her phone was in her pocket, the urge to dial and inquire a physical ache. She shoved her hands into her pockets and kicked at a loose stone, scattering dust.

The garden felt wrong, a landscape she no longer knew. The sunlight streamed into where the tree had been, and it felt too bright.