Gemotions

He stared at the note, the ink smudged as if someone had wrung it in their fist. *Regarding the willow… The roots are causing problems with my patio.* His breath hitched. He hated the way Mr. Thomas had even phrased it, casual and unconcerned.

He pulled at his collar, feeling suffocated. The willow, weeping branches brushing the ground, was a living poem. It had witnessed the laughter of children, the quiet moments of contemplation. He felt his jaw muscles clench.

He crumpled the note and tossed it into the bin. The sound of the paper hitting the metal was a small explosion in the silence. He went outside, stared at the willow and just felt the ache.