March, aptly named, is a slow, obligatory trudge. One morning, the buzzer heralds a box. Small, heavy and postmarked California.
I slit the tape, folded back the flaps and squinted into a blaze of sunshine: seven Meyer lemons, straight from Ann’s tree.
Outside, they were orange-yellow bright; inside they were orange-lemon sweet. I squeezed them down, stirred them thick and poured the brilliant lemon curd into a glass jar. Back then, my children were short and my refrigerator tall. I chose the highest shelf.
Some afternoons, I’d spring open the lid and spoon up one sunny bite. Some, I’d simply gaze at that fat jar of friendship — all mine to savor.