I hated to eat the last of the lemons.

Linda and Willis shared the harvest of their one, small tree with me a year ago, and, when I paid them a visit in December, they did the same. Eagerly clutching the small crate to my chest, I scurried to my truck, greedy, already, to taste their goodness.

I remembered these lemons’ remarkable qualities, their way of being so amazingly yellow. Not just their rinds, but the pulp and juice and little slivers of skin that make their radial innards. And, not just yellow, as in pigments and light waves and perception of color. No, these lemons are yellow to their core, yellow to the seeds of their souls—robust and sublime and full of life.

I came home and squeezed some juice into a glass of water and savored the drink, a taste of the gods. And, then, over the next few weeks, I saw myself become parsimonious, not wanting to run out, missing the lemons before they were gone.

Like I often do with life—afraid I’ll run out of yellow. Afraid one day I’ll sip the last of the juice. It’s so much to ask of a lemon, don’t you think? So much to impose on life. When life offers one breath at a time, one sip at a time, and asks nothing more than to take what is offered.

To simply love every last lemon.