QUARRY

 

We found the juicer on a fragrant night in Rethymnon.

Just married, we wandered

noncommittally through the tiny, winding side streets

of the old town, ripe with the scent of lemon trees and oregano.

 

Perhaps it was those lemons, weighing down the trees

in the courtyard of the Lemonokipos Restaurant,

that inspired us to pick up this simple tool,

carved from olive wood, a memento of our sort-of honeymoon.

 

The Greek man smiled as he put it in a paper bag,

and I wondered if he knew we two women had just kissed

against the stone wall outside, still warm from the day’s heat,

our lips sweet with citron sorbet.

 

This evening, I used it to extract the last sharp juice, made jars of lemon curd.

Unknown to me, my son slipped the dripping juicer off the counter.

Now, I watch him use it to excavate the sandbox.

Among the lilies, taller than him, in the suburban garden,

he drills down, seeking treasure and finding sand.

 

Still, he keeps digging.

He and I both know the power of time and persistence,

the durability of heat and wood.

 

Elaine Westnott-O’Brien

(From The Waxed Lemon Issue 8)