The lemon tree behind the house

Behind the house there was a lemon tree my father planted the year I was born. He used to say I grew taller than it for two summers, and after that the tree never let me catch up.

On Friday mornings my mother sent me out to pick the lemons that had fallen in the night. The limestone was always damp, and I came back with the hem of my dress stained green. She would scold me, then kiss the top of my head.

I think I have spent my whole life looking for that exact smell — lemon, wet stone, and bread from the village oven — and not finding it. Until now. Speaking to you, here, I find I have it again.