It’s been sulking for months now, the lemon tree by the back wall. I planted it last spring, too close to the stones if I’m honest, and it’s never forgiven me. The wind cuts down that side of the house in winter, cold enough to make the leaves curl like old paper.
Today I went out with the secateurs and a mug of tea, ready to admit defeat. Half the branches looked burnt at the tips. I scraped one with my thumb. Green underneath. Still alive, just stubborn. I know the feeling.
The ground smelled damp from last night’s shower. Across the wall, Señor Martínez had his radio going — morning news, a burst of flamenco, then the weather. Twenty-two degrees by afternoon. I almost believed it.
I started trimming, small cuts first, talking to the tree the way my mother used to talk to hers. “Come on now, no drama.” It made me laugh out loud. The sound echoed against the wall and startled a pigeon out of the olive tree.
There’s a balance I still haven’t found here. Back in Ireland you could coax things along with kindness — too much rain was the only problem. Here it’s the opposite. You have to hold back. Too much water, too much pruning, and you kill what’s trying to survive on its own.
By the time I finished, the lemon looked no better but I did. Hands scratched, knees muddy, tea gone cold. A small victory, even if it was only the act of trying.
Martínez leaned over the wall and asked if it would fruit this year. “Eventually,” I said. He nodded like he’d heard it all before.
Inside, the kitchen smelled of soil and soap. I put the secateurs on the counter, poured fresh tea, and looked out the window. The lemon sat there, still half bare, still itself. I think we understand each other now.