Gemotions

The chainsaw’s teeth ripped through the wood, a sound that sliced through Martha’s afternoon quiet. She watched from her kitchen window, hands clasped, knuckles white. Sunlight dappled the spot where the old maple had stood, now a gaping void. He’d apologized profusely, her neighbor, Mr. Henderson, for the inconvenience. Said the branches were overhanging and a nuisance. Martha had, with a sigh, agreed. Now, the absence thrummed in her bones, a dull ache she couldn't name.

The stump stood sentinel, a rough brown testament to her acquiescence. She'd always loved that tree, its leaves a vibrant tapestry in the fall. The birds that nested there. The shade it cast over her porch in summer. She hadn't even argued.

Her tea grew cold as she stared. She should have fought harder.