It's Still Life

Lemonade Daze

That particular summer was endlessly hot. The sun withered my sister and me into fragility, splayed us in a reach for breezes as we sheltered in dark corners. We  whined when mum insisted we go outside and play. “You two act like you’re afflicted, struck by some serious brain condition.” So we stalked shade under trees and hid away in its depths until the sun fell into the horizon. And mum would greet us on the porch with two tall aluminium tumblers, shiny metallic purple and sweating beads of cold condensation, and lemonade never tasted as good as it did that particularly hot summer.

Clouds tattoo the sky
Summer is an older soul
of shade and madness

dVerse’s Haibun #40