Lemons

When I was a child, my grandmother lived
in that old white house on Darwin Avenue
in Lincoln Heights.  There was a church and
school across the street.  My parents were
married there.  We were all baptized there.

The other end of the block was the 5 freeway.
I remember throwing lemons from my grandmothers’
tree in hope of hearing a skid or two.  No matter how
many we threw or smashed or swatted away with
swings of a bat, it seemed there were always lemons
to eat with salt, bitter citrus biting into young gums
and lips.  I remember my grandmother told us to go
and confess our sins to the priest, to pray that God
would forgive us for trying to kill someone.
She never understood us.

Down the cross street was the Pabst Blue Ribbon
Brewery.  A cold gray building that billowed smelly
black smoke.  I always thought this odd, a brewery
so close to church.  No one else seemed to think twice
about it.  They just drove by on their way home from
work, not blinking an eye at kids in the street with
armfuls of lemons, winding up towards the freeway
at traffic hour.

Michael Gonzalez