lemonade summers

i stand inside the time where lemonade stands popped up on every corner, 

inside the week of eighteen, the day the candle dims and the sparkler starts to sputter to life, i exist on two planes, tomorrow and yesterday, adolescent and ancient, before and after i began to Grow Up ™.

the squelch of the lemon grows louder as my mother presses her hands into my own, pushing the lemon down harder on the juice squeezer. i’m pushing down with 

all my 

might, 

but my strength can only do so much, 

i can only do so much, 

i can only be what i am: a little girl. 

my mother, 

taller, 

longer, 

stronger, 

winds her way around me and helps me draw out the juice. i sell two full pitchers, maybe three. it’s started to get blurry now.

every day

is blurry now. every day is movement, every second is coexistence, every conversation is the simulation of education and evaluation. the dichotomy, duality (i know big words—that’s why i belong here), i know everything, i see myself everywhere, i see the end of a 

dream before you even close your eyes. 

the last time i dreamed was too long ago. i dream now of times when i knew that i knew things, like the feel of my grandmother’s lap once i began to grow tired, or the way my dog would hum little snores in her sleep when she was exhausted, or the sound of laughter and popping oil when it was a saturday night and my family was all together, when i knew what it meant to be whole.

home is a place i have not been in a while now. people here have started to call it home, like they can’t help themselves, like the words slip out, push out, without their permission. it’s a violation of the tongue and a confusion of the heart. i have a home. it’s in a pitcher made of plastic with seeds and sugar at the bottom, full of liquid still warm, not yet placed in the fridge, but the best you’ll ever have.

i have a home. it’s in long nights staying up on the phone with your friends, giggling about something you know isn’t funny, trying to stay quiet so family won’t hear you.

i have a home. it’s in laughing so hard i start to cry—i want to cry, because now i must make a new home, now i must start again. 

i’m trying to make a family out of people who might be my friends, and i’m smiling when i’m meant to, pouring in the sugar, stirring up the truth, blending it together like a tapestry of time, thinking of my latest birthday and the time that i was nine, thinking of the infinity between my every breath, thinking of the hesitation, the nerves, the amount of first impressions i have left, i’m thinking of everything i can think to think of, and when it’s too much, i stand inside a different time.