Gemotions

The stump was raw, a furious wound in the manicured lawn. Sarah’s jaw clenched. The house across the street, the one with the pristine white fence, was now visible, mocking her. She’d always loved the privacy that oak had offered. *They* thought they could just *take* it. Her boots crunched on the freshly churned earth.

She’d planted that tree, a tiny seedling, with her grandfather. He’d told her it would outlive them all. She ran a hand through the rough bark of the remaining trunk. The scent of sawn wood filled her nostrils, acrid and unwelcome. She wouldn't let them win. She *wouldn't*.

The phone in her pocket vibrated, a call from the HOA. She ignored it. They wanted to “discuss the matter.” They could wait. She headed back inside, grabbed the gardening shears, and began to hack away at the remaining branches littering the ground.