The First Lemon

When I’m scanning produce in a grocery store, I often think: how long does it take to grow a single piece of fruit?

Two years ago, I planted a lemon tree in a field of towering eucalypts. I mulched and watered and watched, and I spoke kindly into its presence.

Yet the ground is hard, and I am inured to failure.

I was surprised when bright green leaves and branches sprouted, the trunk grew sturdy beside its spindly bamboo stake, and a smattering of blossoms appeared.

Last year, the first lemons, no larger than pinheads, blew away in the wind. This year only one lemon made it through. Every day I’ve crept outside to touch it.

All new things—babies, trees, flowers—are so precious, memorable and extraordinary. So much goes into the creation of a tree, even before it leaves the garden centre. By what strange magic has this bush inserted itself into the ground, to tangle with the web of eucalypt roots below?

As I reflect on the sweet and sour mystery of all new life, I’m excited by what the future holds for Lesbians on the Loose. May more and more lemons adorn our branches. May we be nourished by a root system we didn’t know we had. May the sun ripen our precious fruit, and may the winds of time be gentle.

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