She stands at the counter
in the yellow kitchen light,
measuring childhood
in plastic cups.
One packet of grape Kool-Aid—
royal purple dust
like contraband velvet—
torn open with her teeth.
Lemonade already sweating
in the pitcher,
sharp as July,
bright as scraped knees.
She pours and stirs,
the spoon clinking
against the glass like a toast
no one taught her how to make.
“Tonight,” she says,
with a seriousness borrowed
from grown-up tables,
“you may have wine.”
We straighten in our chairs,
six and eight and solemn,
as if steak waits instead of meatloaf,
as if candles are lit instead of the buzzing bulb.
The liquid blooms—
violet folding into gold,
sunset dissolving into bruise—
and suddenly our cups look older.
We hold them carefully,
two hands each,
trying not to gulp
what must be sipped.
She raises hers—
just lemonade, plain—
and touches rim to rim
with our wobbling plastic stems.
“To us,” she says,
and we echo her,
unsure what us contains
but certain it is important.
The first taste is sugar
and citric shock,
grape candy masquerading
as something forbidden.
We cough, laugh,
declare it strong—
very strong—
as if we know what that means.
She watches us over the table,
tired eyes softened
by the theater of it,
by our careful, crooked manners.
Outside, the world hums—
bills unpaid,
news too loud,
tomorrow waiting with its teeth.
Inside, we clink again.
We are rich with purple lips,
drunk on permission,
intoxicated by inclusion.
Years later,
real wine stains a tablecloth
in some other house,
and I will remember
how she mixed sweetness with tart
so we could pretend
to belong to the adult world
without losing the light.
How she made a vintage
from powder and hope,
served at a table
where love was the only thing aged.
And how, for one small evening,
our glasses held
everything she could give—
and it was enough.