Gemotions

The little apple tree, once a fragile seedling, was now only a few feet of splintered wood. Its branches had borne fruit, small green apples that tasted of childhood and freedom. I had planted it with my grandfather when I was barely tall enough to reach the topsoil.

I stood frozen in place, my hands clenched into fists. A dull ache throbbed in my temples. His face, weathered and kind, flashed before my eyes. He’d taught me how to graft, how to nurture. Now, the lesson was loss.

The silence of the yard seemed to amplify the absence. I remembered climbing its branches, feeling the sunlight on my skin. I wanted to scream, to lash out at the unseen culprit, but instead, I just stood there, the image of that small, sturdy tree burned into my memory.