Gemotions

The saw's teeth, she imagined, had been blunt. That was the only explanation. It was the only way to reconcile the ragged stump with the image of the sapling, so meticulously watered and defended against squirrels, a decade and a half prior. Her fingers, despite the warmth of the day, felt like ice as she traced the rough edges. A low, keening sound escaped her throat, a sound she hadn’t realized she was capable of making.

The air felt thick, difficult to breathe. Each inhale was a battle, a desperate attempt to drag something, anything, into her lungs. A robin, oblivious, landed on a nearby branch, chirping. She wanted to scream, to lash out at the bird, to silence its cheerful song.

He had promised her, her grandfather. He’d said it would outlive them all. Now, only a jagged remnant remained, a wound on the earth. Her vision blurred, and the world seemed to tilt precariously. She stumbled backward, bumping into the fence. The metal gave way, and she collapsed to the ground, the scent of fresh cut wood and wet soil filling her nostrils.