Gemotions

The splintering was like a gunshot, echoing through the quiet afternoon. Sarah almost didn't look up from her meticulously weeded flower bed. "Probably just wind," she muttered, though her fingers, usually so deft, fumbled with the trowel, digging deeper than necessary, as if punishing the earth for some unseen offense. The shadow lengthened. Her neighbor's oak, a monster of a tree, was down, the crown sprawling across their fence line. Relief flooded through her, quickly followed by a prickle of something else. *You should've offered to help them prune it, you know, just to be neighbourly,* a tiny voice whispered.