Mr. Lemon's Lament

Mr. Lemon returns to consciousness with a sharp intake of air. He slowly opens his eyes, not knowing how long he has been asleep. At eighty-six, it is not as if he gently falls asleep, but more like he just suddenly shuts off.

Through burning, tired eyes, he scans the room. It’s a cluttered mess. Dust covers everything and a pile of dirty dishes rests on his folding table. He sighs, "What would my poor wife Katherine think of me if she saw her lovely home now? She worked hard to keep it nice. I must get busy and clean it up. It’s only right. It’s just that I’m so tired.”

Lemon pushes the button on the armrest to straighten his reclining chair. He winces in pain, his neck and shoulders aching. "Ah, shit!” He reaches down and rubs his latest ailment, cellulitis in his left leg. “It’s always something! God! Can’t you give me a break? Or am I the new Job?”

Lemon stands and wobbles for a moment before catching his balance. He begins clearing off the dishes and bringing them to the kitchen sink, only to find a pile already there. He places the dishes down on the counter and opens the dishwasher. “Humm. Looks like there’s room for a few more. I’ll probably have two loads, though.” After pouring in the detergent, he eyes the remaining dishes and thinks, “I should just use paper and plastic from now on. Then I can just throw everything away when I’m done. I don’t know if that’s just being lazy or practical and, to be honest, I don’t give a damn. I’m sick of everything. I’m tired of making decisions.”

He folds his arms and leans back against the counter. His eyes drift up to the Felix the Cat clock on the kitchen wall. “Huh. It feels as though time drags by ever so slowly, then “BANG!”, it’s suddenly noontime! It has taken me two whole days to do the dishes. How am I supposed to take care of this whole house by myself?”

I recall making that same statement to the doctor, who told me not to try doing it all at once. “Abe, if you pick one thing to do in a day then, before you know it, the whole house will be clean. Also, by doing things in that order, you’ll be moving around and bending more. It’ll be better for your health, plus you’ll feel better too! You might even find that your sleep improves as well. All this will help you to enjoy life more and perhaps live longer.”

Lemon grumbles to himself, “Live longer. I think I’ve lived long enough as it is! I was ready to leave this world right after Katherine died. I’m eighty-six! Who the hell wants to live longer than that? Nobody! Well, almost nobody. Well, not me at least. They keep giving me more pills to take. Don’t use sugar or salt. Watch your diabetes. Monitor your blood pressure! They’ve taken out half of my thyroid, varicose veins, and most of my large intestine! My back is full of arthritis, as are my fingers, neck, and knees! I’ve had two detached retinas repaired, and now my eyes are so full of floaters I can barely read. But still, they think I should live longer and enjoy life. Assholes!”

As Lemon rubs his grey-stubbled face, he hears a truck door slam. “Ah shit! It’s Clarence from Meals on Wheels. I’m in no mood for his friendly chit-chat! It’s not his fault, it’s part of his job I suppose, but just the same, I’m in no mood!” At the sound of the bell, Lemon opens the door and is greeted with Clarence’s smiling face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lemon,” Clarence says brightly, “And how are you on this fine day?”

Lemon's lips begin to snarl, but he does his best to reply politely. “Oh fine, Clarence. And you?”

Clarence steps into the house carrying his packages of food. “I’m excellent, thank you. I have today’s yummies for you!” Lemon thanks him and tells him to place them on the counter.

“Mr. Lemon, I know when we first started delivering meals to you, I told you that at the end of each week, you could make out a new menu for the following week. You prepared a menu for one week and instructed me to continue serving the same items every week thereafter. I was wondering if perhaps you might be interested in trying something new?”

Lemon pouts and shakes his head. “I’ll be honest with you, Clarence, I don’t have much of an appetite these days, so the same old thing is just fine with me.”

Clarence grins. “I thought you might say that sooo." Clarence leans in toward Lemon as if to share a secret. " I threw in a few custard puddings for fun! My other customers say they’re just yummy!” Lemon looks over the tops of his glasses and thinks Clarence says ‘yummy’ way too often.

“Why, thank you, Clarence, that’s very thoughtful of you. But if you don’t mind, I was just getting ready for a nap." He starts escorting Clarence toward the front door when Clarence stops and looks directly into Mr. Lemon eyes.

“Please, Mr. Lemon, don’t stop eating your meals. I’ve been thinking you' re looking a lot thinner lately, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” In a smaller voice, Clarence adds, “I worry about you.”

Lemon feels touched by the big man’s concern and tells him not to worry. “I’m just a bit tired these days, that’s all. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Clarence’s face brightens, “Excellent! Then I’ll see you next week! Bye!”

Lemon sighs and puts the meals in the fridge with the leftovers from the past week. He takes one out - Swedish Meatballs with sauce. “I suppose I should eat something, but I’m just not hungry." Lemon walks over to the junk drawer and takes out the egg timer. He sets it for one hour. “There you are, Clarence! I’ll eat in an hour, like it or not!”

Listening to the dishwasher rattle away, he thinks that he still might have time to do one more chore. “Which will it be? Should I strip the bed or dust the house?” Both seem like big jobs. Then he remembers he forgot to buy more Lemon Pledge. "That’s part of the reason the house is so dusty. I guess I'll strip the bed! God, I hate that job. Kathrine did it once a week. I don’t think I’ve done it once in weeks! It’s because I hate that damn fitted sheet!” He looks at his bent and arthritic fingers. “It hurts! But it still needs to be done. I’ll just have to do my best.”

Shuffling into the bedroom, Lemon curses the inventor of the fitted sheet and hopes he is roasting in hell when he catches a brief glimpse of himself in the mirror over Katherine’s bureau. He stops and, without turning, beckons to God. “You don’t have to show me how ugly I’ve become, I already know. I look like I should live under a bridge and threaten people with their lives for crossing over it.” Lemon does turn, however, and sees himself. Reflected is the image of an elderly man with uncombed white hair, in need of a shave, bushy eyebrows and rounded shoulders. “Damn! I look like a sick Quasimodo.” He holds up his twisted and knarled hands. “Look at these. Once they were straight and strong. I was twenty-four when I met Katherine. I had sandy brown hair, broad shoulders, and a muscular chest. My legs were as strong as Atlas' himself. I was invincible, or so I thought. Now I’m old and bent, and the ailments just keep coming. You created man to love you but gave him a corruptible body. No matter how he tries, he cannot be perfect and is always in a state of sin. So, You sent your Son to save man and free him from the fires of hell. But there’s a catch. You are only free when you die. So, I’ve been living in the hell of a broken heart every day since my wife died, and you won’t listen to my pleas to join her. They say no one knows the mind of God, but You know mine. I have no idea what Your reasons are, and I don’t need to. I only have to believe in what I know to be true. And I do. I just don’t understand the "why". Why don’t You want me? Tomorrow is another long day, and I guess I’ll make it through if You want me to. But why keep me waiting? I’m just getting older; that’s my future now. Please, God, just think about it. Amen.” Lemon sits on the edge of the bed and is amazed at how good he feels. It is as if God heard him and listened. Lemon feels humbled. “You know what? Today is Saturday. I think I’ll get cleaned up and go to four-thirty service."

When Mr. Lemon walks into the church, everyone is delighted to see him. His hair is pulled back, and he is clean-shaven. His suit hangs awkwardly on his thin frame, but it’s the best he has. At the end of the service, Mr. Lemon is the last to shake Pastor Joe’s hand.

“Mr. Lemon. How good it is to see you! I’ve tried getting in touch with you on several occasions. How have you been?”

Mr. Lemon stammers, “I-I-I’m a heavy sleeper these days, sorry.” As Pastor Joe continues to shake his hand, Mr. Lemon begins to feel a little queasy. A bead of sweat breaks out along his hairline, and his heart is starting to race. The fingers of his right hand are tingling. “Ah, pardon me, Pastor Joe, but I’m feeling a bit tired. Would it be alright if I sat in the sanctuary for a moment or two? J- Just until I catch my breath.”

Pastor Joe knits his brows with concern. "Oh, not at all! Can I get you anything, a glass of water?”

Mr. Lemon holds his hands in protest, “No, no. I just need to sit for a minute. Thank you.”

Lemon shuffles in and sits in the pew in front of the altar. He looks up at the cross and shakes his head as he leans back, his hand to his chest. Lemon closes his eyes as he grimaces in pain. Suddenly, his heart stops pounding, and he feels relief. Thinking the situation has passed, he opens his eyes and sees two exquisite Russian wolfhounds sitting in a pool of light emanating from above. Around their necks are chains of gold with pendants that read,” Goodness and Mercy”. The dogs stand when they hear their master’s voice. Lemon shields his eyes and looks up into the light while trembling in fear and awe.

“Abraham Lemon. I have heard your pleas and lamentations and have wept. I’ve sent my hounds of heaven to escort you home. Katherine awaits.”

Tears of ecstasy wash down his face. Mr. Lemon rises and steps into the golden light. His strength renewed, his pain forgotten. As he passes between the two dogs, they gracefully turn and follow.

Pastor Joe feels a gentle gust of wind followed by a barely audible thud. Rushing into the sanctuary, he finds Mr. Lemon lying on the pew, a peaceful smile on his face. The pastor kneels and makes the sign of the cross on Lemon’s forehead with his thumb.

“Rest in peace, Mr. Lemon, for now you know the mercy of God.”