ALARMING BEAUTY OF THE SKY, THE

My Old Man, Picking Lemons

19 My Old Man, Picking Lemons He brastles through the bushes, tugging hard at unripe fruit that won’t let go. His yard consists of pavement, pool, and citrus trees. Palm Springs has been so awfully hot and dry, the sparrows have to hatch before they fry. It is one hundred seventeen degrees. The branch rips from the stem and rocks the boughs. He almost loses balance, whoops, and throws the lemon, like some tumorous disease, into a market bag.The violence makes juicy, ready ones above the fence drop on the neighbor’s side, which does not please my father, steadily at loggerheads with everything around him, as he treads his narrow, gravelled property. No breeze relieves his dusty grove, no hope of joy. He grunts and stoops, and, toppling, cries,“Oh, boy,” then swears and knocks the pebbles from his knees. The pool’s too warm mid-day, and much too shallow For cooling off. I take the bag of yellow harvest, a poke of tragicomedies, and tell my father,“Thanks,” and get my keys. ...