A Lemon Tree
clarity in sour
One day, I want a lemon tree. But lemon trees don’t grow where I live.
My first encounter with a lemon tree was in Greece. A girl I lived with during my study abroad had a grandmother on Andros, one of the smaller Greek islands. She invited our friend group for one of our last weekends. I remember feeling uncomfortable letting a stranger host me when I had nothing to offer in return. I understand now that offering wasn’t the point. It was the culture. All I had to give was appreciation for her home, her land, and the willingness to clean my plate each time she filled it.
I smelled the citrus before I saw it. A grand lemon tree christened the pathway to the front door. The fruit hung low, and the branches grew wide. Maybe it’s an illusion, but the scent felt stronger under the sun.
The granddaughter took an earlier ferry with two of our friends. Because of class schedules, another friend and I followed the next day. It was the longest ferry ride we’d taken. We found seats on the top deck, happily letting the wind tangle our hair.
At the dock, taxis waited for tourists. Still, I felt grown approaching one. We showed the driver the address. He didn’t speak English.
With no service to distract me, I watched the small blue dot, us, on my phone drift farther and farther from where we were supposed to be. The roads grew longer, emptier, edged with sweeping views of a coastline opposite our friend’s grandmother’s house.
My friend and I said nothing—to the driver, or to each other—but we both felt it, something was wrong.
We held hands in silence, trying to stay polite, careful not to upset him, as if that might determine our fate. Maybe he would spare us. We were naive to what was simply a classic cabby detour. Instead, we leapt straight to murder. We are both writers. Writers have the advantage of wild imaginations, and the disadvantage of them, too.
Eventually, the road curved back toward a small village of cobblestone streets. He dropped us off a few houses away; cars couldn’t go farther. Grateful to be alive and untouched, we paid the full fare without question. We never spoke about the ride again. I only remember it now thinking about the lemon tree.
The lemons were enormous, the size of my hand. They hung heavy from the branches, so ripe they looked like they might burst. The grandmother used them for cooking, baking, squeezing juice over fries and crisp salads. The citrus sharpened every flavor, adding brightness and dimension to every plate.
Savannah Smiles, my favorite Girl Scout cookies, have been discontinued. I seem to be the only one mourning those sweet, zesty triangles. The lemon shortbreads, dusted in powdered sugar, remind me of a Greek cookie, koulourakia lemondiou, I used to eat in plenty during my time abroad.
There are copycat recipes. It’s something I could try to create on my own, if I wanted them badly enough. So now with them gone, I find myself wondering how badly do I really want it?
I don’t cook. I don’t bake. My interest in a lemon tree is rooted in ambiance and aesthetic. Sometimes I worry that deep down, that’s where all my wants lie.
I may not want a lemon tree itself so much as the feeling of a life where one could grow, no matter the cost.
I love you from my head tomatoes,
Gareth