My head in the uppermost branches of my tangerine tree, I’m standing precariously on my six foot ladder, merrily picking fruit. I feel safe, immune from falls, scraps, even the dread finger lopped off by my trusty #2 Felco pruners. Doesn’t faze me at all. No. I’m just happy to be up here, deep in the branches of this lovely, non-demanding, always generous tree.
But I nearly slip, catching an armful of supple branches which square me back to balance on the topmost step, the one I’m warned against using. My head and face are thrust deep into the leaves of these saviour branches, and I have the good fortune to breathe deeply.
I am greeted by my sweet doggie dog’s scent after soaking in the sun; by the smell of my arm, catching the sun’s glory beating into my flesh as I drive down the road; by the smell of new washed laundry brittlely dry on the line.
To my great surprise and delight, the tangerine leaves smell just like my sweet doggie dog, my own sundrenched skin, my laundry ablaze with sunshine particles dusting our beings.