Gemotions

It's strange how something that had always been a backdrop, something so familiar, could suddenly feel like a problem. The elm, shared with the Johnsons, had always been a source of pleasure; the way the sunlight filtered through it in summer, the home it provided for birds.

But Mr. Johnson, face creased with what looked like forced cordiality, was proposing its removal. He spoke of "potential damage," of "future costs."

I stood there, feeling chilled, even in the warmth of the spring sunshine. My fingers began to fidget.

The air felt stale. His words seemed to close in around me, making me want to leave.

"Let me… think about it," I mumbled, avoiding his gaze.