Under the Lemon Tree

Johanna Leo Samman

Under the Lemon Tree

With counted days, we sit under the lemon tree.

A hundred Saturdays ago, we lounged in this garden and grilled the meat my sister bought from the butcher, the vegetables I brought from the market. Our laughter rang all around us; the smell of smoke permeated the air. We dragged the iron chairs under the tree, our weight digging their legs into well-watered grass. Sometime between then and forty-four Tuesday nights ago, our laughter dissipated. The smoke left the air, the grill gathered dust, and your body began to crumble. Sick again, your anatomy began its lengthy surrender. Your cells divided and scattered into corners where they do not belong.

Ten Wednesdays ago, you told me about all the love that overwhelms you and how your body, now frail and toothless, could no longer hold it. Your voice was hoarse and your skin was yellow, yet I looked at you and realized there’s no one quite as alive as someone experiencing their last glances at the flowers and the trees they’d grown used to. Gear by gear, your body disassembled—your lungs hosted unfamiliar lumps and heaved, your liver took itself to bed, and the reliability of your muscles eluded you. I looked at you, pictured your terror at the prospect of your ending before I realized I was projecting my own. I looked at my mortality headfirst before I learned to inhabit the present. I feared this is how we’re all remembered: like deer in headlights. Our last dent on the memory of those who love us is perhaps the moment we realize we’re standing on our last legs. Under the lemon tree, time seemed to freeze, yet the small hands of the clock ticked and nearly pulsed, almost imperceptibly, under the fabric of your life.

Two Thursdays ago, I sat down with you on those iron chairs, ultimately rusty with old age and memory. There, I finally learned how to open my eyes. Entranced, I noticed the leaves falling around you like a scene from some autumnal film. You in your own vignette, a satisfied smile on your face, your eyes permeated by memories that no longer stung but spoke of a life well-lived. I noticed the grass beneath our feet was thirsty, the rose bush we planted together was bent and withered. It was almost like nothing around us could stand to live if you wouldn’t be there to see it. I would believe it.

Today, we sit on these chairs as lemons ripen above us, and the veil between us begins to lift. Your breath drifts between the gaps of your mouth, ringing your words like wind chimes.

“You remember that poem? The one by Amado Nervo? “‘Life, you owe me nothing. / Life, we are at peace.’” Your voice is merely a croak, yet you smile: “I hope that’s how you felt, too. I wish you were here to hear it.”

I can’t wait to tell you I’ve been here all along. I pray you can feel it when I touch your face.

—

Johanna Leo Samman is a Mexican writer. She received BAs in English and Psychology from the University of Hawaiʻi. Her work is mainly interested in gender, cultural and racial identity, and exploring interpersonal relationships. It has been published or is forthcoming in Hawaiʻi Review, The Oakland Arts Review, and others.