Limeade

We made it every summer—
a frozen cylinder dropped into water,
green as envy,
sharp as longing,
sweet as forgetting.

It melted in the pitcher
like it knew
how much we needed something
to sparkle.

We called it refreshing.
Called it tradition.
Called it ours.
And drank it barefoot
on scorched patios,
knees kissed pink,
lips stained with sugar
and something unspoken.

The air was full of music—
too loud,
on purpose.
So no one would hear
the splintering beneath.

And still, we laughed.
We always laughed.
As if the limeade was strong enough
to hold the house together.
As if sweetness could
seal the cracks
we dared not name.

There are photos—
beads of condensation
catching the light
just so.
As if the glasses were sweating
from everything
we didn’t say.

We passed the pitcher again.
And again.
The ice melting faster
than we did.

Because sometimes,
grief wears flip-flops.
Sometimes sorrow
sits cross-legged in the sun,
smiling through its teeth.

And joy—
joy doesn’t always mean it.
Sometimes,
it’s just limeade.