Nine months, it took. White flowers first, giving way to tiny green fruits and a slow swelling and enriching to bulbs of yellowblue glory, glowing for attention.

While the lemon grew, we did not touch it. We watered it with rain and let it feast on sunlight. We found other things to do. There is much you can do in nine months. You can grow a baby. You can go to war and return, if you are one of the lucky ones. You can complete a novel, build a house, lose twenty pounds. We did none of these things.

No. While the lemon grew silently and slowly, we listened.

We listened to people with stories. Slowing down our racing hearts and our eager minds we learned how to listen and not interfere with the stories of the grieving, the lost and the hopeless. We heard their fears, recognising small elements of the pains they were enduring. Ah, the ache of wanting to just change it all. We hoped to help, but perhaps, despite our best intentions, help was not always ready for them; and in some cases they were not always ready for help. We grieved too, as some refused to be heard and chose silence instead; muted by their own demons.

When we listened, we realised that life does not always give lemons, still less lemonade. How can the cup be half-full when there is nothing in it at all?

The people with the stories grew too. The stories released brought relief in some cases, and new purpose too. With permission, with some nudging and careful questions, we proposed directions and opportunities. We saw – more than once – the light of hope appear across a face like a lemon in full sunlight, as pasts were released and futures presented. That was why we listened. We thirsted for hope too.

There was much crying. Tissues ready every week; you never know who will need them. There were stories which broke us (we took turns to support each other on the hardest days). The sourness and tang of the saddest stories should not be sweetened with simple foolish sentiments. We learned to hold our tongues, hold our judgements, hold their hands when hands needed holding. We learned to pray silently and to scream in our heads.

For nine months, one storyteller came every week to tell us what trapped him; releasing more of his hurts, growing slowly. Though nurtured in some acidic soil he had struggled to contain it all and wanted to live again, needed to thrive. For nine months we listened and kept quiet, giving cups of water, letting the sunlight fall on his heavy shoulders.

And, when the lemon was ripe and the stories had all been told, he lifted his head for the first time and noticed our lemon tree, growing outside. All his life snakes had confused him. Now the lemon tree brought clarity; a kind of healing in its leaves. With a changed face, he laughed.

Mae, lapsed vegetarian and committed traveller, found herself late one Wednesday afternoon in a tuk tuk, Hanoi, her mid-twenties, broke and something of a stew.

Lately unkindled from a relationship she knew none of her friends or family at home would have approved (had they known of it), the nearness of the evening stirred her mind to action. He was not worth it. Oh, she was better than that. There were always plenty more fish in the sea. Fish and fish; many not as slimy. Or smily. Was that what she’d fallen for?

The heat and noise were crowding her, reminding Mae her immediate mission was ready cash and a warm meal. Her bags were probably still at the hostel, presumably locked up. The bank had long since stopped meaningful transactions and her father would likely be unreachable. She had told him she had a job, when in fact it had been her boyfriend who had funded her these past few months. The tuk tuk jolted; she tapped the driver’s shoulder and they stopped outside a cafe. She handed her last note over with a shallow smile and stepped out on to the busy pavement. Chili, fish oil, hot noodles, vegetables and rich stock broth infused her senses and she looked through the crowd in the busy cafe for her friend and former travelling partner. Raz, lapsed student, committed life junkie, had recommended working in the pho kitchen months before, but Mae had been too reluctant. It had all seemed far too much hard work. Now, with no prospect of food until she earned her own keep, these cooking smells felt like torture. She was in luck; Raz was working, serving a pair of Dutch customers with sunburn and various differences of opinion. It didn’t take a moment. Raz looked up and noticed Mae as she chatted, not missing a beat. Picking up the menus with twinkling eyes she left the pair, pulled Mae through a screen into the hot kitchen and grinned.

‘I don’t need to know details,’ she started, in her rich Wirral brogue, ‘but if you need work this evening grab an apron pet and give that pot a stir. I’ll be back in five. ‘S’alright, no one’ll question ya.’ Mae breathed out in relief. The apron was grimy, but the soup looked delicious. No doubt it had been prepared some hours before and was used for the basis of a number of hearty meals on offer. Mae had not made the effort to learn to read the language, or speak more than a handful of the most useful words, but as other waiters and cooks brushed past her she realised that she was in good company; many of those connected with the cafe were westerners, perhaps working for a few days or weeks to fund the next stage of their travels, no questions asked.

‘What kind of stew are yous in then?’ Raz probed as the shift ended.

Mae looked up and licked her spoon. 

‘Well…’

Hot day, crowded beach, noisy queue.

It was raspberry ripple and it had a waffle cone and a short, flaky chunk of chocolate peeking out. On the side of the van and in the hand of the ice cream seller it looked delicious. On the ground it was waxy and waning, one milky lump sliding over stony concrete. A melted dream with half a story.

Grieved over, yes; loudly perhaps, but kicked aside and trodden on by a distracted few (others laughed, not all of them discreetly). Shards and lumps, trickling and tickling the ground.

Kev blinked and looked to his right. Now was not a moment to hesitate. Now was a moment to act. Now, to circle, drop, bite! Pushing the world away from the bottom of his feet, Kev rose and swallowed.

Cold moment, empty sky, noisy amusements.

Out of the haze of the sea and over the noise of the sticky children Kev turned a wide arc, looking to spot who else was about. No blinkers, no criers, except lined up on a wall looking guilty. He was in no mood for sharing; Kev understood those smaller children he regularly saw who hated having to give away any of their much-wanted treats. That was his law too. Finders, eaters.

Finding more courage in his hungry belly and glaring at the boy who had just kicked at the remains, Kev dropped down, shrugging and tugging as he landed. The pecking was not easy in this busy space. People drew around and he had to dance out of the way. Then his brother landed and screamed at him. Other brothers and sisters were above him. Kev retrieved the largest piece of waffle, his favourite move among siblings and lifted quickly, knowing he would be followed. Let them. He had it. Ha! He laughed back at them and dropped the crunchy cone in a mad moment of forgetfulness.

It fell, dropping on to the top of a hut of people. Others got there first. Kev screamed at them, flapping and beaking his way in through the feathers. Too late today. No top bill. His pride had cost him and he preened his wing and shook his head.

The sky was no longer empty, but the noise of the beach reached his head at the same moment that the cold hit it. Every time this ice cream mistake. Let the others take what they could find. Kev needed a quiet place to get his head back again. He lifted again and blinked. Looking right, there, just on the side of the path was a newly-lost chip. A toddler was approaching it. Kev was close enough; he screamed. The child was lifted by a parent and chided. The chip too was lifted, up into the blue, up away from the noise, away from the crowds and the gulls, away from the cold water and hot tempers. This time he would not laugh, but inside a smile warmed him.