Gemotions

The splintering crack echoed through the quiet afternoon, a sound that sliced through Martha’s concentration as she pruned her roses. She should have warned Mr. Henderson. He had been so proud of that ancient oak, claiming it was older than his house. Now, it lay sprawled across his lawn, a tangled mess of branches and shattered limbs. Her stomach clenched. She'd noticed the slight lean, the subtle shift in the earth at its roots, weeks ago. She'd meant to mention it. She'd planned to.

She watched from her window, clutching her gardening shears. She saw Mr. Henderson’s shoulders slump as he surveyed the damage. He wasn’t a young man, and he’d done all the work on his house himself. It seemed like the tree was his companion. She took a deep breath, the thorns of a rose digging into her palm. She should have done something. Anything.

She went to the phone. She dialed his number, then hung up. Twice. She couldn't bring herself to face him, not yet.