And the breeze shifts,
the smell of freshly cut grass
and trimmed roses fills the air.
I breathe deeply, high on memories
but short on attention
as the little girl repeats her demand for payment.
“You owe me a dollar for the lemonade, mister.”
The memories dissolve quickly,
leaving me with a drink-filled paper cup
that is now a swimming pool for flies.
She takes the dollar bill from my hand
and places it in the old cigar box,
beaming as she counts her day’s work.
I used to charge a quarter for my lemonade.
I used to mow Dad’s lawn and trim the roses.
I used to live here.
Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved