Gemotions

The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, a smell that usually brought him comfort. Not today. John’s jaw clenched as he approached the house, the house he’d inherited from his grandmother. He'd never liked it, but the tree. The tree he planted as a child. That was different.

The grass was pristine, manicured. A new patio. A swimming pool. All the changes screamed a kind of cold efficiency that grated on him. He found his tree, or rather, the absence of it, in a corner of the lawn.

The sight of the bare earth, where the sturdy old willow had stood, punched the air from his lungs. The world tilted. A sudden, sharp pain flared in his chest, and he grasped at the empty space as if trying to hold onto something he’d lost.