Eleven Lemons

I recall the California sun.  Uyen and I were visiting Helen and Gary in Redwood City.

All four of us alive then.

Helen and Gary lived in a fine rented house with a small green yard.  But an important yard—one that cradled sunlight and held in its center a lemon tree.

I went out and stood by the lemon tree so I might accurately count the lemons hanging from the branches.

Eleven.

Eleven fat lemons.

Nearby, a bird sang “weep-weep, two-two.”    

I poked at a lemon on the tree.

Earlier, Helen told me she’d been having problems with ants.  Argentine ants, which, instead of bringing us a new dirty dance, march inside our homes and make a mess.

I always wanted a lemon tree, and I thought Helen was lucky to have one.

Little did I know that in less than two years, Gary would be gone.

In five, so, too, the woman who made all her life and much of mine possible.  

—Mitchell Hegman