Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more frantic than calming. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel. The drive had been too long, too winding, and he should have taken the train. He felt as though his skin was stretched too tightly. He pulled over, the tires spitting gravel.

His eyes darted, searching. He recognized the spot, even without the tree. It was a bald patch of earth, a gaping wound on the landscape. A muscle in his cheek twitched uncontrollably.

"Damn it," he muttered, the words escaping in a rush. He'd poured his heart into planting that sapling. He'd imagined the shade, the laughter, the memories. All gone. He slammed his fist on the dashboard, the sound echoing the hollowness in his chest.