Gemotions

The chainsaw sat inert on the patio, gleaming in the weak winter sun. Arthur had promised, and now he had to do it. The weight on his chest felt heavier than the machine itself. He’d told Mrs. Gable it was the right thing, that the branches were encroaching, blocking her light. But the real reason was pettier, uglier. A simmering resentment he’d nurtured for years, fueled by her prize-winning roses and his own failing garden. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans, the fabric rough against his skin. This felt different, wrong.

The scent of pine needles, usually a comfort, now seemed to mock him. He picked up the saw, the cold metal a shock to his system. He thought of his own oak tree, just a few feet away, its roots intertwined with the one he was about to fell. A wave of nausea washed over him.

He walked over to the tree, its trunk a thick column of life. He'd never really looked at it before. Now, he saw the intricate patterns of bark, the silent strength. The decision was made. He raised the saw, the roar of the engine a scream inside his head.