Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from the open window as I listened to Mr. Peterson’s request. He was talking about the poplar, the one that cast a shadow on his vegetable garden.

I clenched my jaw, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly stifling. I’d planted that poplar as a sapling, years ago. I loved the way the leaves quivered in the breeze. His request felt like an intrusion, a violation of something precious.

"The wind breaks the branches and they are a mess," he said.

I opened the oven, pretending to check on the bread. “Well, I’ll need to think it over,” I responded, my voice controlled, and knew the poplar would stand. I knew the bread would be delicious. And I knew the poplar would remain.