Gemotions

The wind seemed to hit harder, as if it was pushing him away from the empty space. It had been decades, but the oak was supposed to be there. Its absence was a gaping wound in the familiar landscape. He’d driven the stake himself, a tiny boy wielding a shovel almost as tall as he was. Now, just a freshly-cut stump remained, the wood pale and exposed. He reached out a hand, his fingers tracing the rough surface. His breath hitched in his chest.

He turned and walked back to the car, each step heavy, as though lead weights had been sewn into his shoes. The world felt too bright, the birds’ chirping too loud. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles shone white, then drove back home.