Gemotions

"Well, that's that, I suppose," Amelia muttered, staring at the fallen birch tree. The delicate, white-barked trunk lay across Mrs. Davis's garden. She reached for her tea, and noticed that her hand was shaking.

She had always admired the birch. It had been there, slender and graceful, when she and her husband, George, had bought the house. She remembered George pointing out its beauty to her during the first viewing. She felt the ghost of his hand resting gently on her back.

She went inside, leaving the cold tea on the porch table. She went into her spare bedroom and stared at the empty space where she stored her photo albums. She never looked at them anymore, but there they were. She gently opened the door and entered, the air smelling of mothballs and time.