Gemotions

"Gone," the homeowner repeated, his voice flat. He looked at the empty space where a great weeping willow had once stood, its branches a curtain of green. He’d seen the tree every day for forty years. He remembered planting the tiny sapling with his mother. The story she always told him, that the tree would always be there.

He squinted, his eyes scanning the surrounding trees. He knew the property well. A new fence had been erected in the last month, a different type of stone in the walkway. He had been so busy with work he’d missed so many details, and this lack of awareness now infuriated him.

He touched his finger to his chin, his gaze locked on the empty space. A feeling of unease settled in his stomach, a prickling sensation. He didn't trust the flimsy explanation the landscaper had given him. He wanted to see the permits, the logs, the proof of rot. He demanded he see every document.