Gemotions

The old oak tree in the backyard cast a long shadow, mirroring the one that had settled over him. He sat beneath its branches, remembering the endless summer days he'd spent climbing, playing, dreaming. Now, the tree felt like a sentinel, a silent witness to the impending destruction.

He ran his hand along the rough bark, each groove and crevice a memory. He felt pinned by it, bound to the past. He could see the bulldozer parked at the end of the driveway, its ominous presence a constant threat.

His grandfather, the one who planted the tree, was now gone. The connection was lost, as surely as the house would be. The thought of losing both, of being severed from his roots, made him feel sick. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure the scent of the freshly cut grass, the sounds of his childhood, but they were fading, replaced by the grating sounds of progress.