Gemotions

The oak, a colossal sentinel of their cul-de-sac, crashed down in the dead of night. Amelia watched the aftermath from her kitchen window. The mangled branches now rested squarely on Mr. Henderson's meticulously kept lawn. She sighed, the air catching in her chest. She'd been promising herself, for months, to paint the porch. The brushes sat, unused, in the garage.

Her husband, Daniel, offered to help Mr. Henderson clear the debris. She watched him walk away. The sight of his easy generosity stung. She remained, gazing at the scene, feeling the familiar weight in her limbs. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, painting the disaster in shades of pink and orange.

She made herself a cup of coffee, the aroma doing nothing to lift her mood. The house, usually comforting, felt constricting. She felt the heavy feeling again, pressing down on her. The silence in the house was deafening. She thought of calling her sister, but the thought brought another wave of exhaustion.