Gemotions

The scent of freshly cut grass failed to lift Eleanor’s mood. She watched as Mr. Finch, her neighbor, approached with a clipboard in his hand. He was talking about the poplar tree, its tendency to drop twigs, its potential… liability. She felt a familiar pressure building in her chest, a weight that made it hard to breathe.

She found herself gripping the edge of the picnic table, her knuckles white. She looked at the tree, its leaves shimmering in the late afternoon sun. It was a haven, a place of peace, and the thought of its removal felt like a personal attack. She managed a weak smile, but the words wouldn’t come, the knot in her throat too tight.