Gene finally leaves his small wooden house one nippy fall morning after being indoors for a month. Mourning his wife, Edith, he decides it is time to get back to work. Much has gone unattended, and he wants to repair the livestock shelter, turn the garden, and prune the trees before the season is over. Especially now that frosts are getting heavier; sinking in more easily through the gaps in Northern California’s mild winters, killing more of what’s exposed. Like the round, plump, lemons his wife loves so much.

Loved so much.

He runs his leathered hands over his gray beard then steps off the porch to take stock of the citrus trees lining the long driveway. In the years he’s been planting them, one each year for Edith’s birthday, he has seen them bounce back from unexpected Sonoma County hoarfrost and survive withering summer drought. But he’s never seen their branches hang so low in late autumn.

Gene, who earned the nickname Farmer G because he still grew vegetables, raised his own beef and planted fruit trees while others had turned to growing grapes, is sure the pesticide fog rising up from nearby valley wineries is to blame. It comes earlier each year and stays longer, causing respiratory problems that can’t be cured. He thinks that’s what killed his wife while he was in the Central Valley auctioning off six prized pasture-fed cattle.

Before he left, her wheezing worsened. He was concerned but she insisted he not worry.

“I’ll be right here while you’re gone, watching the moon. The same moon we’ll look at together when you come back.” She had laughed. “Better behave yourself. The moon will be watching you!”
He came back to find her dead on the porch clutching a shawl over her shoulders. At first, he thought she was pretending to ignore him, not getting up to greet him as she usually had. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive, he glared at the moon. Barely a crescent, it wasn’t the same one they had enjoyed before. This one, seen through a laced haze of grief was a thin sliver of cold. Its waxing light bitter, not pleasing. He didn’t like it and he knew Edith wouldn’t have either.

The coroner surmised she must’ve struggled to breathe. Her skin had turned blue; heart stopping just hours before Farmer G’s return.

The young preacher who spoke at Edith’s burial talked about God calling her back home. At that Farmer G stood up and raised his voice. “You can’t believe that! It’s the poisons that did it. That’s the problem,” he opened his arms. A few people gasped. Some of those who worked with the vineyards shuffled in their seats, looked quickly at him then down at their feet. Over the years, days of chemical spraying had grown into weeks. The toxic scents lingering over everything. Air quality advisories, few and far between, were ignored.

Death fog, Farmer G called it.

“Hell, it’s even changed the moon! Damn thing’s not right.” It had started to look like a porous snowball.

No one responded when he asked if any of them had noticed.

The funeral now behind him, he walks towards the trees to get a closer look, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. He doesn’t remember the drafts this time of year being so brisk. The cutting air tingles.

“I should’ve brought gloves.”

Gene wonders if there will be enough lemon butter, lemon soap and lemon tea this year to share with their nearest neighbors, a quarter-mile away. He hasn’t spoken to them or to anyone since he buried his wife. If he sees them – if they wave back – he’ll ask them to pick the fruit themselves. He’s not sure he can do it. Not without Edith. Not this year.

Glancing at the horizon, he sees strips of gray air sandwiching a sheet of something that looks like dirty ice. Odd, he thinks. Frozen water mid-air? Maybe he’s due for an eye exam.

He squints and scans the trees again. Even from where he stands, he can tell their leaves are shorter and wider than they used to be. The blossoms are no longer white. In their place, blooms on the tips of tree shoots are muted beige.

Gene walks towards them and, leaning into the boughs, shivers. The bark is blanketed in an unfamiliar chill and has an unusual odor.

He’s forgotten to take care of the trees. Frostbitten this early in the season, out of reach spindly branches needed to be pruned and limbs checked regularly for damage. Right now, he doesn’t care; he’ll get to that later.

The florets are less pungent than before. The once sharp acidic twinge is now mixed with a faint metallic balm. He pulls out his pocket knife and cuts a bud off of an offshoot and takes it indoors, places it on the kitchen sink.

A quick once-over reveals a small round pod tucked deep within the tight blossom. With his switchblade he carefully pops it out and slices it in half. Inside are wet, half-formed translucent sections. More like wafers than wedges. At first silver in color they oxidize into a powder blue, the barely visible almond shaped seeds a deeper blue. In all his years tending these trees he’s never seen anything like this before. His lips pucker as he brings one half up to his mouth and licks it with his tongue.

Not Lemon. Not Lime. Not lemon-lime. Salty and sweet, it’s not even citrus.

“I’ll be damned! Edith? Edith, will you come take a look at this!”

In the silence that follows, he puts the half-pod down on the counter.

“What the hell? This isn’t a fruit.”

Farmer G shudders. His head bobs. Wiping his mouth with the back of a jittery hand, he takes a few steps back then goes outside.

On the porch he takes a breath. The frigid air hurts his lungs. He coughs, opens and closes his wrinkled hands then shifts his weight from foot to foot. Brows furrowed; he glowers at the sky’s murky overcast.

“Damn pesticides,” he mutters. “What else could it be? A bad dream?” Then he pinches his ear.

“Ouch!”

He is fully awake.