I see him under the lemon tree. Each sitting citrus shrinking upwards, clinging to branch.  He didn’t wait for me like I thought he would. Bigger than his body, he went to acquire this taste on his own, despite having asked me to come. My role in his life subtly shifting from do-it-all caretaker to watchful helper. One day—a day that I both eagerly anticipate and fearfully dread—I will lose both titles and not see or help at all. 

As I shut the front door behind me he has already found footing in the trunk's maze. Undeterred by spiky branches that are warnings for soft skin. Beware of bite, both sour and sharp. Bark and leaves, enveloping lithe legs and eager hands. 

The walk in wet grass gives me time to spy the sparse crop, well out of his reach. “Let me help you.” He doesn’t like this, but concedes. Shifting weight from branch to branch, he releases grip as I pull him toward his reward—sunbeams caught in a porous and rough shell. One tug, two. Branch pulls down to earth, following his force. 

Then, snap. Lemon liberated to his grasp, we leave to enjoy the spoils.