Gemotions

He ran his hand over the rough bark of the sycamore. It was old, the tree. A witness to more than he could imagine. Mrs. Hernandez wanted it gone; she said it was a hazard. He stood there, the late afternoon sun warm on his face, the air filled with the scent of pine.

The wood seemed to whisper secrets, murmuring stories he couldn't quite grasp. The branches, twisted and gnarled, reached towards the sky like supplicating arms. A dull ache throbbed in his chest, a sense of loss he couldn't name.

He sighed, the sound lost to the rustle of leaves. "I need some time," he told her, his voice hoarse. He knew what she wanted. He knew what he’d have to do.