Gemotions

He stared at the tree, the object of Mrs. Peterson’s ire. It had been decades, a majestic oak, its branches a testament to endurance. It had been his father's favorite. He felt it in his chest, a deep ache. The knock came, Mrs. Peterson.

"George, we need to speak about the oak. That’s been the topic of the neighborhood." He could see her face in the sun. She looked weary.

He took a deep breath, trying to slow the racing thoughts in his mind. The air felt thin. "Yes, Mrs. Peterson." The tree felt like a cage.

“I was hoping you'd consider letting us prune it back heavily." Her words were soft, yet firm. He should have expected this, but he wasn't prepared. He had no control over anything. He was desperate to *do* something. He wanted to shout. He wanted to fight. He wanted to be done with this conversation. "Yes, I'll think about it."