Gemotions

The splintering crack echoed through the late afternoon quiet. Agnes, watering her prize-winning petunias, nearly jumped out of her skin. She straightened, hand still clutching the hose, and saw it: Mrs. Henderson's ancient oak, a behemoth that had stood sentinel for seventy years, sprawled across her lawn. The sheer, sudden loss of it made a hollow ache bloom in her chest. She slowly turned off the water, the silence amplifying the absence of the tree's familiar rustling.

The sight of the damage made her think of how fragile everything truly was. Just yesterday she was griping about the weeds in her garden. Now, the triviality of her concerns felt ridiculous. The sun, sinking lower, painted the scene in long shadows, and she shivered.

She walked towards her house, each step heavy. Inside, the phone was ringing. It was her son, calling to see how she was doing. “Fine,” she said automatically, but her voice was smaller, fainter than she’d intended. The smallness of it made her pause. She needed to sit down.