Gemotions

"We were thinking…" The neighbor's voice trailed off, but Clara knew what was coming. The words hung in the air, a threat she’d sensed bubbling beneath the surface for weeks. She'd spent her life caring for the old sycamore, the only tree in her yard. It was a haven, a symbol of stability.

She tried to project an air of nonchalance, but her hands were clammy. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture she hadn't realized she was making. She found herself picking at the paint on her porch railing, a small, involuntary act of self-soothing. She could feel a tear welling in her eye.