Gemotions

The familiar scent of pine needles, a ghost of the past, used to hit Leo the moment he stepped into his parents' old backyard. Today, only the faint smell of the chainsaw's oil remained. The towering fir he'd planted on his seventh birthday was gone.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture jerky and uncoordinated. His stomach felt tight, a cold stone lodged within. He couldn’t seem to swallow. The birdsong, usually a welcome serenade, now felt like a mocking echo.

He slowly circled the barren space, a silent circle of grief. He thought of his parents, of the countless summer afternoons spent beneath the tree's shade, and a wave of something he didn’t recognize washed over him. He kicked at a loose clod of dirt.