The Lemon Tree

It was a big backyard, big enough to hold the imagination of a boy - trees to climb, sheds to explore, a large lawn to swing a bat or kick a ball and in a quiet corner, a sanctuary for prayer when my grandmother, bent over and groaning with angina, had me go there and ask God for help. There were long summers of almonds, plump grapes, peaches and apricots and cold winters bursting with big, bright oranges. There were places where you could heal a hurt or hide when bruised and full of fear. Sad how it grew smaller with the years like an old religion, less important to life, ignored until it shrank to the size of a lemon tree nourished only by the beer filled bladders of teenage boys back from the local pub, dying for a pee.