The Process of Lemons

Picking lemons in the garden

Sun shining, grass underfoot, empty shed slowly falling apart

My grandmother’s hands, with their veins and swollen knuckles taking the bag, peering inside

She’s happy with the haul

Becomes lemon butter, spread on Anzac biscuits or toast

Crumbs spraying over the smooth brownness of the table.

‘You’ll never get invited to Government House’ she says – I was, but she still says it

I’ve never had fabulous table manners

Despite all her efforts to civilise me.

I think it has something to do with the lemons

They must have sweetened her temper.

A hundred times, maybe a thousand, that would have happened over my childhood

And picking the lemons brings it back.