Lemons in the Januarys

The lemon tree, within the adobe walled garden, sends me back, to a past January.......

Where I floated on the currents of sunlight and breezes di mare (of the sea), through the citta gardenia (city garden). The walled lemon grove hid me from the off-season, muffled streets of Sorrento.

Why not sip limoncello in late morning with the lemon trees and the sun, such pleasant company? Why refuse the garden woman's wrinkled, giving hands, the frosted-chilled glass and its sweet, puckering, viscous contents? It may counteract the sun's energy spent fueling me with warmth, in the brisk, but bearable, morning air. I do accept, graciously. "Grazie." The induced chill, slithers up my spine, spreading goose pimples and hairs on end. The delicious liquor rewarms me from the inside. I close my eyes........mmm.

My eyes commit to a few snowy glass bottles, and my mind is made. I will take the flavor of this place home with me. I sit, on a garden bench, absorbing the noon hour. After my hand crosses pages, leaving them engraved with the scene, I wish the garden "farewell... for now." "Until we meet again." And we do, again...again and even again... a couple of years later.

Now, here I am, 3,000+ miles from "home," where I had never laid eyes on a lemon tree, I pick. I climb the adobe wall, reaching and twisting, and wait for the stems' release. The greenless, preferably, the smallest, I squeeze, evaluating. I'm choosy until I run out of my ideal lemons. I need 15 for juicing, and 5 for preserving.
I have frequented this tree, over the last two days, enough for it to know my name. It must recognize me now, coming with empty, anxious hands, and leaving with bulging pockets, and lemon holds. The last visit of the day, was timed right. I left the oak grove, when the sun did. He decided to descend behind the mountainous hill. I wanted to leave behind the sun-forgotten, dampness, and seek warmer territories, luminous with lemons.
As shadow sweeps over and sunlight is swept under, the fields dim. The wild green is tamed, but the lemon tree is still immersed in light, popping with color. I have my way with her, but with little evidence remaining. She remains fruitful and lusting for future harvesting rendezvous.
Tonight: lemon oil, preserved lemons, and lemon curd. Tomorrow: limoncello. I empty the last of the snowy glass bottles (alla citta gardenia), drinking its deliciously-cold contents. My hands peel back the lemons' yellow, with puffs of fragrant mist. My mind glides back to the lemon lady, the keeper of the limoncello stand. Like mine, does her wrinkled finger swirl through lemon essence precipitating on the counter? Does she raise a finger to her open mouth? And guide a lemon to her nose?