The Bag Beneath the Lemon Tree

I lived in a one-story house with a hard dirt patio and a lemon tree pressed up against the north

wall. It was just my mother, Elena; my little sister, Sophia; and me,

Mateo. Then, the slow dragging began, the same careful

pull I had heard the night before. I shifted the bed, then shoved it to the opposite wall.

I tried sleeping with the window open so the night air could cool the room.

Nothing changed. That morning, the patio smelled like the drizzle from the night before.

Wet earth and citrus leaves. I went out with a hose to wash the dirt down toward

the drain, dragging the stream along the base of the lemon tree where the roots bulged