When my mother died there were five lemons on her kitchen counter, a gift from a neighbor’s tree. They embodied the full life cut short that she lived and the abundant home she opened to so many. I took the lemons with me back to Idaho and they became part of the altar I made for her and the vigil I held for forty days. Once the altar was dismantled, I did not want to discard the lemons which had begun to shrink and dry. I saved them. They never molded, but shriveled and dried, retaining their citrus fragrance.
Photo Credit: Karl LeClair