Lemon Tree

We already know the way I compose these letters to you sits on the axis of Earth. I hope they make your stomach feel like you're flying somewhere across the Atlantic with nothing but those beautiful pair of wings, Angel.

Recently, I see our hair standing in ecstasy during a picnic, reaching back up to the heavens, toward the sun, toward our branches, toward our roots, back into Earth. The lemon tree above us holds all the commitment we need. Something rooted, grounded, and blossoming.

Will you pick lemons with me?

I think about how much time we'll spend under the sun. How our melanin will eat its rays like lemons with sugar, lemonade some might say. And we'll take those lemons that have fallen over our heads and we'll squeeze them until the seeds fall to the earth to be planted again.

Will you make lemonade with me?

Because life seems to be throwing me off cliffs with no parachute these days, but I'll be satisfied to hitch a ride on your wings. It would be so delicious to make lemonade with you for the rest of our existence here.

Because these lemons will continue to fall in the most impolite ways from the tallest trees. And I know that one day I might want to retreat into a cave, dig my hands into my eyes, and question what it means to heal. What it means to shed. And one day you might renounce all you are grateful for because your eyes have been stung with lemon juice.

But with two hands, and one heart, we can form a coalition against the sour side of life, and make something sweet. Something refreshing.