I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to will away the buzzing chatter as the lurch and whine of the subway signaled a departure from their world. It seemed like only a few moments ago that I was there.
I’m sitting in their kitchen, in a small, cushioned chair that they tell me is where I ought to be. Emo and grandma sit on either side of me, and grandpa at the end beside the glass sliding door that leads to a small balcony. Outside, against the grey sky, the wind stirs the leaves of a young tree that sits on a thin plywood shelf. My grandpa catches my gaze and mentions that he received it a year ago as a gift. The wind starts to pick up now, and I begin to worry, but I then notice a thin yellow ribbon securing its narrow trunk to the balcony railing. Chuckling, grandma tells me she tied it that morning. With her pillowy hands in a falling motion, she describes how the tree had been pushed over by one of the many violent gusts of wind. I watch as the leaves spin and flap at their bases, wondering how they’re so strong, how they’re holding on. “This kind blooms red flowers. But last year there was only one. It was so beautiful but died immediately. I’m hoping for more this year.” My grandpa nods to himself assuringly and takes another sip of wine. With every sip, my grandparents exclaim how delicious it is. They ask emo where it’s been hiding. Apparently, they’ve had it in their fridge for months.
A steady sprinkling of rain starts to come down and like an uninvited guest, voluminous droplets pang on the window, luring my gaze back outside. I ask about the shelves as I had not seen them before. Atop them, alongside the tree, are empty planter boxes that are starting to fill with water. “I just built those for grandma so she can have a garden,” my grandpa begins. “Back in the day it took me one hour to do something like that, but this time it took me 6 hours!”
We sing happy birthday, my grandparents clapping their hands together soundlessly. After a few strong attempts by my grandma, the candles are blown out. To no one in particular, I say how nice it must be to live along the river, and I sneak another peek at the tree to ensure that it’s still upright. “Ah but I hate how the power plant is right there,” emo mutters pointing across the waterway. I hadn’t even noticed until that moment.
Superimposed upon the darkness, stood four tall obtrusive white and red factory pipes. I later learned it was the largest power plant in the city. At the base of the structures sat a docked barge inscribed with white block letters that read Lemon Creek, New York. Where was this pleasant-sounding place? It couldn’t possibly have been there. It felt at odds with what surrounded it.
On the subway, I peeled my eyes open, becoming aware of a budding headache. The rain from the walk to the station had finally penetrated the fabric of my jacket and began to leach onto my skin. My grandparents and aunt suddenly felt so far away and all I could think about was Lemon Creek.
