Gemotions

He’d avoided Mr. Henderson all week, but here he was, standing on his porch, hat in hand. Raindrops speckled the freshly cut grass, mirroring the tremor in David’s hands. He hated confrontation.

“David, good to catch you,” Mr. Henderson began, his voice booming across the yard. “That maple… it’s a menace, isn't it? Blocking the sun completely.” David shifted his weight, suddenly fascinated by a beetle crawling on his porch step.

The maple. The tree his wife had planted, years ago. His throat constricted. He mumbled something about needing to “check the covenants,” anything to delay the inevitable.

He felt exposed, a single leaf in a hurricane. He nodded, trying to appear agreeable, his smile tight and brittle. The porch felt cold beneath his feet.