There is a tree in the front yard of my parent’s house that shouldn’t exist.

A failed graft, the root stock is a grapefruit, the stem is a lemon.

It has large thorns and bright green, almost magnolia shaped leaves.

When I first met it, it was a sickly little thing.

Surrounded by concrete and the front-yard-gravel that was popular in the 80’s, it defiantly grew.

First one branch, and a few leaves. Then another, a little higher up.

I left a few months later, and then I only saw it on my yearly visit home.

 

Visit 1.

Tree starts to slump, no fruit, and it looks sad.

Gardener suggests removal.

Mom says no. It stays.

 

Visit 2.

The paved driveway is torn up. The gravel lawn dug up.

The tree’s roots are exposed. The few leaves it has are a sickly yellow.

 

Visit 3.

Grass has retaken the yard, speckled with a few flowering bushes.

Not much has changed with the tree, but it looks more like it could make it.

Maybe it was lonely.

 

Visit 4.

It is now wrapped in a green sheet. It’s the middle of a California winter and my mother is worried it is cold. She’s been taking gardening classes at the local university. She’s started to lose her ability to walk.

 

Visit 5.

 

The yard is flourishing and needs upkeep. The driveway is redone, smooth, like out of a real estate magazine.

My dad has joined my mom on the crusade to save the tree. A faded yellow yard-long metal tube connected to a hose gave it deep root water weekly.

No outward change in the tree itself.

My mom is wearing braces on her legs, and her gait is awkward. She’s happiest in the dirt by the flowering bushes.

 

Visit 6.

 

Months have passed. Maybe a year.

The tree has pride now. Green sheet removed, able to stand tall and its leaves are plentiful.

There’s a bud of a fruit.

Mom moves slow. She misses some things. Holding her test results, the words say it’s something neurological, but the doctors aren’t sure.

 

Visit 7.

 

Again, a long time has passed.

The bud seen before has come and gone, but more are there now.

One fruit, about the size of a baseball hangs heavy on one of the top branches. Yellow and rounder than a lemon.

Mom struggles. Dad wants her to declare disability and get the placard so she doesn’t have to walk so much. She refuses.

 

Last Visit to Date.

 

There are few fruits on the tree. They are huge. The size of small globes, yellow and dented.

A scratch reveals a tangy spray of zest.

Mom sits on the couch most days for most of the day, satisfied she saved the citrus in the front yard.

My dad and I take down a fruit and rip it apart.

Barely any meat and a mountain of pith.

These fruits are for decoration and smell. Not to eat.