I bought you months ago and potted you on the porch. I was so excited; you had such potential in your curled leaves and young slender branches.
The first few weeks were so exciting. I would look at you admiringly as I came through the gate each day. I reveled in the smell of your leaves when I sat on the yellow chair with a cup of tea and watched the street. When you flowered the little white buds filled me with promise and contentment.
But enthusiasm fades (or comes in sporadic bursts, in my case) and soon I no longer noticed you when I checked the letterbox. Your flowers fell without fanfare. I forgot to water you. You developed a magnesium deficiency, some kind of mould, and a droop. Weeds have sprouted at your base, and insects hide in your leaves. I have neglected you.
Yesterday from the corner of my eye I noticed a spot of yellow that wasn’t a fungal disease. You have grown lovely lemons. Four of them. I remembered them this morning and I twisted one from your droopy branch and squeezed it in my tea. It was delicious.
So thank you, lemon tree. Your generosity has rekindled my love for you. I will dig out my garden books, diagnose you, and water you more often. I promise.
