Gemotions

The weight in Sarah's chest made it hard to breathe. She stood across the street, watching as the fire department cut the fallen sycamore away from Mr. Johnson’s roof. He was a retired history teacher, and his house was stuffed with books. She remembered the way he always waved at her, his smile gentle.

She'd known, weeks ago, that the tree looked unstable, that the leaves had started to turn brown prematurely. It was her job, as head of the neighborhood association, to address things like that. The association had funds to cover trimming, but she had been busy with other matters: planning the annual block party, dealing with the new construction next door.

She crossed the street, her feet heavy. She found herself unable to meet Mr. Johnson's eyes as she offered him her condolences. He looked so defeated, and it was her fault.