Gemotions

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn, making Amelia squint. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, a slow, unwelcome tickle. Mr. Henderson, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, stood on the property line, gesturing emphatically at the towering oak. “It’s a danger, you see,” he rasped, his voice thin like stretched thread. Amelia sighed inwardly. The oak was magnificent, a silent sentinel she’d watched for twenty years. Her shoulders slumped.

She rubbed her temples, trying to massage away the persistent throb behind her eyes. The thought of arguing, of explaining why the tree was vital to her, why the idea of it gone felt like a vital part of her existence would be chipped away, felt monumental. She just wanted to sit in the quiet of her kitchen, maybe stare at the wall. The world demanded so much.

“I… I’ll have to think about it, Mr. Henderson,” she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper. The weight of the world settled back upon her. The oak stood, a silent witness, and she felt the quiet of it call to her.