Vintage memories of the land where lemon-trees bloom

In the garden by the house where I grew up, there were orange and lemon trees.
They were ancient, generous, wide, never trimmed.

Watching them from above in summer, they resembled to white clouds floating over the soil.
In the cold season, their broad branches were bent to the ground, surrendering to abundance, while created golden falls, as the might be replacing the missing rays of sunshine.

In my culture, you always bring presents, when you go to someone's place., something to thank your hosts for their hospitality, for opening their doors and letting you into the intimacy of their home.
They say "the honor is with the one who gives, more than with the one who receives a gift".

When we were invited to visit someone, my mother used to fill some bags with fruits. That was our  offer as guests, to participate to nature's generosity through a small gesture, particularly with those family members strewn around the island.
She still does.

I don't miss the island.
Most of all, I don't miss the people there.
But I still miss the time, when taste of oranges was the most natural thing and the feeling of sharing could set you in harmony with the whole world.

Memories sometimes feel like red wine, soft, round, with a dry aftertaste, entangled in curls of smokey persistence.