Grandma's Lemonade

Grandma used to make lemonade. She would squeeze the fruit by hand, letting the sour juice drip down into the pitcher below, pouring in sugar, allowing it to settle to the bottom before handing me the large wooden ladle so that I could vigorously stir, swirling the liquid into a frenzy of pulp and citrus bubbles. She would make it whenever I came to stay with her. Once, mom woke me early in the morning on the first day of summer vacation, pulling my small arms into a thin jacket, then yanking my zipper up to my chin in stubborn defiance of the mid June heat. We made the five hour drive across the border into upstate New York, arriving around 1 pm. She unloaded my bags and kissed me on the cheek in a rush, leaving a smear of pinkish-orange lipstick on my cheek.

"Be good... I-... just, be good." Then almost as quickly, she was gone, her silver Toyota a glinting speck speeding down the long winding farm road.

I stood there on the porch of Grandma's house, feeling hot tears pushing to get out. I rubbed them aggressively, pressing my palms into the sockets hoping to relieve some of the stinging pressure. I didn't know it yet but this wouldn't be the last time mom would leave me at Grandma's impromptu, speeding off to spend a whirlwind month or week or however long her new relationship would last with her string of new boyfriends.

I heard the screen door creak open. Grandma stood in the doorway, an unreadable look on her face, curlers adorning her graying hair. Her neutral expression broke into a pained smile, her eyebrows pitching down casting her eyes in pale blue shadow.

"Oh darling, come here, sweetheart. It's all gonna be okay." Before I even realized it, she had enveloped me in a tight hug, and as I relaxed into her strong embrace the tears came. They rushed down my face hot and fast as I gripped Grandma's quilted nightgown. Her old tabby, Rooster, tip-toed through the cracked door, slithering through my legs, purring deeply.

I reached down to run my hand along his soft back. His tail was clipped at the end from a run-in with one of the feral cats in the dilapidated barn down the road. Yet Rooster lacked nothing. He maintained an air of mischievous confidence, even if he sometimes toppled to the left due to the injuries he sustained. Grandma clicked her tongue at him, lightly shoving the abashed cat to the side with her foot.

"Get back in the house, you damn cat... Last time he got out, he snuck into the chicken coop. Almost snatched an egg or two before I chased him out." Although her words were harsh, she imbued them with a warm fondness for the old animal. 

Breathing deeply I suddenly felt as though all the pain I felt would be forgiven ... somehow. Something about how the warm gusts of wind rustled the trees, or the way Grandma stood with open arms, an unwavering beacon of comfort. I knew she would be there, just like I knew the sun would rise every morning.

Just like I knew mom would never change. Broken things don't always want to be fixed.