Gemotions

The knock echoed through the empty house, a sound that usually sparked panic. Today, it was just another thing. Sarah dragged herself to the door, the floral wallpaper blurring at the edges of her vision. Mr. Henderson, his face a roadmap of good cheer, stood on her porch, a pruning saw in his hand. “Mind if I have a word about the old oak?” he asked, beaming.

Her hand, as it reached for the door handle, felt heavy, like it was made of lead. She swallowed, the action dry and difficult. "Sure," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. The oak, its branches a skeletal dance against the sky, had been her father’s pride. Now, it was just something else that needed tending, something she couldn’t bring herself to do.

He launched into his spiel about sunlight and property lines, but the words were distant, the sound a buzzing in her ears. Each complaint he uttered about the tree was a fresh stone added to the weight that sat in her chest.