Gemotions

A tremor started in my hands as Mr. Henderson, with his unsettlingly bright grin, proposed the idea. The tree, he claimed, was “blocking his sun.” I tried to smile back, to agree with his casual assessment, but the muscles in my face felt stiff, unresponsive. The image of the tree falling, of the vacant space where its leaves used to whisper secrets to the wind, clawed at the back of my throat. My vision swam and I felt a chill run from the base of my spine, making me long to go sit somewhere quiet.