Gemotions

The note was short, polite. Mrs. Silva, wanting to address the question of the willow. He reread it, the words blurring before his eyes. The willow, with its long, weeping branches, held a special place in his heart. He felt a tightness in his chest as he looked at it.

He sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak of the chains a constant background. He remembered picnics under the willow, the gentle sway of its branches in the breeze. The shade, the laughter, the… emptiness of the present.

He closed his eyes, the image of the willow burned into his mind. "I need some time," he muttered, the words barely audible. The swing continued its slow, mournful dance.