Trees Grow ((full)): As Long As The Lemon

No discussion of this keyword would be complete without addressing the political backlash.

We are like that now. Not the fruit, but the rind. The bitter, essential part. At dawn, when the drones retreat and the sky turns the color of lemon flesh, my grandmother still slices them thin. She salts them in a clay pot the way her grandmother did. “For the day we feast,” she says. And though the bread is scarce and the water tastes of rust, I believe her. As Long As The Lemon Trees Grow

—on the shores of Lampedusa, in the backyards of Berlin, in the community gardens of Detroit—the story of Homs continues. No discussion of this keyword would be complete

So, the next time you taste a lemon—in your tea, your pie, your seltzer—pause. Consider the weight of it. Consider that somewhere, in a war zone or a hospital or a house of grief, someone is holding a fruit just like that and saying: I am still here. The bitter, essential part