הסיפור, חלק ב׳

Saba became ill in December. At first it was only that he was tired, and then that he forgot small things: where he had put his hat, what day it was, my name. By the spring he could no longer walk to the garden. That year, for the first time, the lemon tree gave almost no fruit. My father said it was because of the dry winter. I did not believe him.

Saba died in June. After the funeral, the house felt too big and too quiet, and my parents decided to sell it. Nobody asked me. I was angry for weeks: at them, at the doctors, at the tree, which had simply stopped trying.

Now a young couple is standing at the gate with a baby, waiting for us to leave. The woman sees me by the tree and comes over.

"Is it yours?" she asks.

I want to say yes. I want to say that it belongs to an old man in a blue hat, and to a boy who watered his shoes. Instead I say, "My grandfather planted it."

She nods slowly, as if I have told her something important. "We'll look after it," she says. "I promise." She looks at the baby in her arms, and I suddenly remember Saba's words: you plant it for someone you have not met yet.

Before I go, I pick the only lemon left on the tree. It is small and not quite yellow.

Our new apartment in Tel Aviv is on the fourth floor. There is no garden, only a narrow balcony that looks at another balcony. That night, while my parents are still opening boxes, I cut the lemon open, take out the seeds and push them into a pot of earth. I water them. It is Friday.

For three weeks nothing happens. I check the pot every morning, and every morning I feel stupid for checking. Then, one morning, there is something there: a thin green line, bent like a question mark, pushing up through the soil.

I do not tell anyone. I just sit on the balcony for a long time, and I water it, very carefully, so that none of the water lands on my shoes.

Saba became ill in December. At first it was only that he was tired, and then that he forgot small things: where he had put his hat, what day it was, my name. By the spring he could no longer walk to the garden. That year, for the first time, the lemon tree gave almost no fruit. My father said it was because of the dry winter. I did not believe him.

Saba died in June. After the funeral, the house felt too big and too quiet, and my parents decided to sell it. Nobody asked me. I was angry for weeks: at them, at the doctors, at the tree, which had simply stopped trying.

Now a young couple is standing at the gate with a baby, waiting for us to leave. The woman sees me by the tree and comes over.

"Is it yours?" she asks.

I want to say yes. I want to say that it belongs to an old man in a blue hat, and to a boy who watered his shoes. Instead I say, "My grandfather planted it."

She nods slowly, as if I have told her something important. "We'll look after it," she says. "I promise." She looks at the baby in her arms, and I suddenly remember Saba's words: you plant it for someone you have not met yet.

Before I go, I pick the only lemon left on the tree. It is small and not quite yellow.

Our new apartment in Tel Aviv is on the fourth floor. There is no garden, only a narrow balcony that looks at another balcony. That night, while my parents are still opening boxes, I cut the lemon open, take out the seeds and push them into a pot of earth. I water them. It is Friday.

For three weeks nothing happens. I check the pot every morning, and every morning I feel stupid for checking. Then, one morning, there is something there: a thin green line, bent like a question mark, pushing up through the soil.

I do not tell anyone. I just sit on the balcony for a long time, and I water it, very carefully, so that none of the water lands on my shoes.

Saba became ill in December. At first it was only that he was tired, and then that he forgot small things: where he had put his hat, what day it was, my name. By the spring he could no longer walk to the garden. That year, for the first time, the lemon tree gave almost no fruit. My father said it was because of the dry winter. I did not believe him.

Saba died in June. After the funeral, the house felt too big and too quiet, and my parents decided to sell it. Nobody asked me. I was angry for weeks: at them, at the doctors, at the tree, which had simply stopped trying.

Now a young couple is standing at the gate with a baby, waiting for us to leave. The woman sees me by the tree and comes over.

"Is it yours?" she asks.

I want to say yes. I want to say that it belongs to an old man in a blue hat, and to a boy who watered his shoes. Instead I say, "My grandfather planted it."

She nods slowly, as if I have told her something important. "We'll look after it," she says. "I promise." She looks at the baby in her arms, and I suddenly remember Saba's words: you plant it for someone you have not met yet.

Before I go, I pick the only lemon left on the tree. It is small and not quite yellow.

Our new apartment in Tel Aviv is on the fourth floor. There is no garden, only a narrow balcony that looks at another balcony. That night, while my parents are still opening boxes, I cut the lemon open, take out the seeds and push them into a pot of earth. I water them. It is Friday.

For three weeks nothing happens. I check the pot every morning, and every morning I feel stupid for checking. Then, one morning, there is something there: a thin green line, bent like a question mark, pushing up through the soil.

I do not tell anyone. I just sit on the balcony for a long time, and I water it, very carefully, so that none of the water lands on my shoes.