Gemotions

A wave of heat rose to Arthur's face as he parked. He hadn't bothered to call ahead; he knew what he would find. He'd always known. He strolled toward the back garden, hands casually shoved in his pockets. The weeping willow, planted on his eighth birthday, was gone.

He glanced at the neighbor's overgrown, neglected hedge, and a superior grin played on his lips. His own property, at least, was properly cared for, and he'd known for years that the massive tree was only a matter of time. He’d told them.

He reached into his pocket and fished out a small, leather-bound notebook. Time to make a note of the new planting schedule. Perhaps a faster-growing variety?