Gemotions

He found the note tucked under the windshield wiper the next morning: “Sorry about the tree. It’s been a long time.” The handwriting was familiar, belonging to old Mr. Henderson, whose property bordered his. He clutched the paper, the cheap stock crinkling in his grip. He’d barely spoken to the man in years, but they’d grown up together.

He walked toward the collapsed tree. It was a weeping willow, and its feathery branches were now a tangled mess. He bent down and picked up a single, pale leaf, its delicate veins a intricate design. He recalled playing under it as a child, his laughter echoing in the shade. They used to hide from his father under it.

He sat on the damp grass, the leaf between his fingers. He closed his eyes, hearing the faint whisper of wind through the remaining branches. The air felt heavy with the scent of wet earth and broken wood. The memory hit him of his childhood, and the sadness was a thick, physical presence in his chest.