The smell of freshly-cut grass lay heavy in the air. It weighed down my leaves as if the dead grass clippings were clinging to life itself. My fruits had been harvested yesterday. They came, plucked, twisted and pulled.

They were back today.

The clippers rhythmically clanged against the hacksaw as they walked lazily toward me. They stopped about five metres away, sizing me up.

“No!” I screamed.

They took another step closer.

“I’ll make bigger lemons next season, I promise!”

You’re not a lemon tree.

“I know my fruits were small and not the right colour!”

I felt the teeth of the hacksaw bite onto one of my lower branches.

“I’ll make them the proper shape!”

You’re not a lemon tree.

The hacksaw moved back and forth. The wet feeling of sap trickled down my trunk as the other lemon trees looked on.

From embarrassment or shame, I fainted.

Specks of sun rays warmed my leaves the following day. A gentle breeze ran through my twigs and branches. I noticed that my whole bottom half had been trimmed, exposing a bare trunk. “I’m alive,” I thought. The grass had been removed, and fresh fertiliser was laid at my roots. I wasn’t myself. I felt stronger. With my weaker extremities removed, I had more room to grow. There was now enough space for a grown human to stand beneath my boughs without hunching over.

“We thought we lost you for a second,” Graham said. Graham was one of the most productive lemon trees on the farm. He had long slender branches and was a full metre taller than me despite sprouting at the same time. I was a thick bush compared to him and I could never produce lemons like he did. Mine would grow brown, more round, and to the size of a dollar coin. Graham’s lemons were a bright yellow, more elliptical with a pointed nose. I wished I produced lemons like Graham’s. I wish I could produce lemons like everyone else.

I liked hanging out with Graham. Only four metres apart, Graham and I spent a lot of time together. When Graham first complimented my lemons, I thought he was just having a giggle. “No, they have a sweet smell to them. I would be proud of them,” he would say. Other trees would look at them and politely smile, not knowing what to make of them, and then look the other way. Some trees would pretend that my lemons did not exist.

But I had strong branches. They were flexible and adaptable. I longed to prove myself to the other lemon trees. Even if my lemons were not the right shape or colour, I knew I was worth something. I made my branches into structural beams and released them for Farmer Sydney to build their home. Despite this, Farmer Sydney would trim me again after I would deliver odd-shaped lemons. Not good enough. I’ll try harder next time. I fashioned my branches into long planks for Farmer Sydney to build a fishing canoe. Last summer, he fished his way down the river. It was perfect. He used lemons to garnish the fish he’d caught in the canoe he made from my branches. Surely I would be accepted as one of them. But, after harvest, he came again to trim and shape me. Every single time, it was painful. They would never accept me.

“Farmer Sydney cleaned you up nice and neat, Jose,” Graham said. “We were all surprised you sapped yourself and fainted,” he joked. “You even gave old Margaret a fright. You look like a whole new tree.”

Coming out of a daze, I looked down at my bare trunk. Something had caught my eye. A tag was pinned to one of my stumps. The tag read ‘Calamansi’, with a picture of the lemons I bear.

“Ca-lah-mahn-sih,” I said aloud, for the first time.

“What?” Graham asked.

“Calamansi,” I repeated with more conviction, understanding flooding my senses. “I’m a calamansi tree!”

My worst nightmare of my seed self being put in the wrong sorting container in the nursery had come to life. But I did not feel dread. Instead, I was comforted in not having to pretend to be something I’m not.

Relief.

“What’s that?” Graham chimed in.

The other lemon trees began to stir with the commotion. “I thought he was a kumquat tree.”

“I thought he was a malnourished mandarin tree.”

“Aren’t they all the same?”

A couple of younger trees bickered amongst themselves.

Old stories tickled my memory. “I had heard of calamansi trees. They were only whispers in the wind. They are often found in nurseries. They bring joy to the greenhouses. If you listen carefully, some of their leaves sing when a gentle breeze runs through them, while others roar with laughter when a gust of wind storms by.”

Calamansi.

“But that’s not who I am.”

“I grew up here with you; I gave my fruits and wood to this place just like you.”

“Apparently, calamansi trees are emotional too,” Graham chuckled. “Are you ok, Jose?”

“I’m great, Graham; I’m a calamansi tree in a lemon farm.”

“Calamansi…” Graham mouths. “I think I’ll call you Cazah.”

The farmhouse door swung wide open. The smell of freshly cooked garlic and soy sauce escaped the confines of the house.

Farmer Sydney carefully walked toward me, balancing a bowl of thin noodles with finely chopped carrots, beans, cabbage and onion. He reached out towards the last remaining calamansi on my branches. He gently pulled them free. Citrus released into the air. He cut it in half, and with both pieces in one hand, gave the calamansi one squeeze, dripping life into his pansit.