Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the frantic drumming in Martha's chest. She watched from her kitchen, the massive oak, which had always been the pride of Mrs. Gable’s garden, now sprawled across the lawn, a tangled mess of broken branches and uprooted earth. Her hands clenched, twisting the dishcloth she held until it felt like it would tear. She’d always admired that tree, its shade a welcome haven in the summer.

She knew Mrs. Gable had loved it, too.

She pulled on her coat, the weight of the moment pressing down. The wind howled as she crossed the yard.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Gable mumbled, her voice frail as she surveyed the damage. Martha reached out and squeezed her hand, offering comfort, a silent promise to help in any way she could.