The grass is a vivid neon color, a fluorescent green you can only find in the countryside. The lemon trees, with leaves so lush and dark, grow in neat lines in the orchards. The sky is a rich blue the color of a robin’s eggs; a blue the exact hue of my family’s eyes. There are no clouds to abate the comfortable heat of sunshine. 

This place is a paradise. This place brings back memories. This place I forsook years ago. A tall man approaches me where I stand, alone. 

“My name is Elio Ale,” he introduces himself. “Are you Bianca Lombardi? I wanted to have a look through the lemon orchards. Mr. Dylan Lombardi said you were familiar with the farm. Would you care to show me around? There are still many hours before the funeral begins.” 

Dylan. Dylan, my older brother by almost two years. “He said as much?” I murmur. I beckon him to walk with me and lead him into the lemon trees. The orchards are so wide and long that they seem endless when you are among them. Everywhere you turn, the tangy scent of lemons surrounds you. I set the pace at a brisk stride. 

“You are a guest,” I conclude, studying him. “A friend of one of my relatives?” 

He nods. “They asked for my company at your father’s funeral. I met him only once while he was alive. He and Francesca were gods among humans. Always so compassionate and bright.” Yes, they were. I only wish I’d realized that sooner, that I hadn’t destroyed my life in the guise of saving it. 

“Dylan and I were my parents’ only children,” I say. “We spent our childhood playing among the lemon trees, stealing the fruit to eat when our parents weren’t looking.” 

Amalfi lemons aren’t like American lemons. Here, by Italy’s Amalfi Coast, the lemons grow sweet and are eaten straight from the trees like apples. 

“You sound regretful,” Elio notes. 

“I am. I gave it all up, years ago.” 

He stumbles in surprise. “Gave it up? What do you mean?” 

I stare directly ahead, but in my mind’s eye, I see the past. “My family, the Lombardis– we’re fifth-generation lemon farmers. My parents hoped– expected– my brother and I to continue the legacy. But I broke their hearts, and Dylan stayed to fix everything.” 

I didn’t often leave the farm except for school, but children wonder about others. I wondered why other children wore clothes that weren’t handmade, and why other children did not spend their days running through orchards of lemon trees. Why other children’s families were “better off.” 

Soon, I realized the truth– or, at least, what I thought was the truth. Perhaps, because I’d been born into a family of lemon farmers, I was doomed to never be anything more. This idea terrified me. From then on, I refused to help out on the farm. I would hole myself up in my room and spend all of my time studying worn-down school textbooks. I’d shout vitriol at my parents, blaming them for our hardships. 

I threw my energy, ambition, and self into academics. I told myself that if Dylan wanted to obsess over lemon trees for the rest of his life, then he could go down with the farm. 

“By the time I finished high school, I made my disdain for my parents clear to them. I wanted nothing to do with the lemon farm. I’d seen how my family toiled over lemons and sweated under the sun, and I decided that the only way to escape that future was to abandon them altogether. I applied to a university in America.”

Because of all the effort I’d put into my academics, I scored a full scholarship with one of the colleges I applied for. 

“During my university years, I tried to forget my Italian roots. I dyed my hair. I concerned myself with ‘trendy’ fashions, always trying to fit in, always desperate to make myself seem better.” Now I think that, subconsciously, I worried that if I didn’t look and act “American,” I’d end up destroying my life and falling into endless labor, like back home. 

“It didn’t matter. I destroyed my life anyway. I failed to see what mattered.” 

“Chasing your ambitions was not your downfall,” Elio guesses. “Wishing away your history was.” 

I nod solemnly. “A year before I graduated, I’d matured enough to see how stupidly I’d behaved as a teenager. I wanted to visit home, but feared my parents’ reaction.” Foolish of me. They would’ve been glad their daughter returned, not mindlessly hostile. “I only kept in touch through letters. After I graduated, I planned to come home but got swept up in job opportunities and stress. I put it off and delayed my plans time and time again.” 

“Then… your father died,” Elio concludes quietly. 

I remember staring at the tear-stained letter I received in the mail, unable to comprehend where my emotions started and ended. 

“I took the soonest flight to Italy. This is the first time I’ve returned since I gave my parents a dismissive farewell seven years ago. I came back for my father’s funeral and found my mother fighting severe dementia.” 

I slow to a stop. We’ve walked considerably far into the orchards. “We should probably turn back now. I’m sure you’ve seen enough. But, first…” I brace a foot against a nearby tree and pull myself upward, tugging a lemon off of a branch. 

I proffer it to Elio. “Here. Try. Just brush your teeth soon; lemon juice is acidic.” He accepts it wordlessly and sinks his teeth in. 

“It’s bittersweet,” he comments. I stare sorrowfully up at the sky. In a few hours, I will attend my father’s funeral at my brother’s side. My mother may not remember whom the funeral is for. And when it’s all over, I’ll fly back to America and resume my job as a highly-paid financial manager. “Yes,” I echo. “Bittersweet.”