The little lemon tree is crying again. Infested with scale, it weeps sticky tears.
On homecoming to Vancouver I find the little tree in sorry state. Once again I apologize for my absence and neglect, and set to tending her. I borrow pruning shears from my neighbour, kneel before the little tree, and amputate the most crusted branches, knowing new ones will sprout at the stumps. Then I set to work with rag and dish soap, gently cleaning each leaf and stem. It takes a couple of hours but when I am done she stands shiny and straight. I scratch a glossy leaf with my nail and the clean tang of citrus fills my nose.
Pablo planted this tree from a seed oh so many years ago. He gave it to me when he went away. When I clean the the little lemon tree I think of beautiful Pablo and his sticky tears.
so sweet – my tears are more watery and less sticky of late (must have replaced my scales with all these wrinkles)
so glad the lemony snippet welcomes you home from your travels. It may be the last of that generation of trees – all the others have decided to come back in the next life as something more climatologically appropriate.
xo
>P