by Thehara S.U.
Sunday lemonade was running across the lawn with the neighbor’s
neighbors, watching our shadows with ten-feet long legs, thinking
that we were gonna be that tall one day. It was having a million
different answers when asked what we wanted to be when we grew
up. It was not using a sippy cup or a straw. Sunday lemonade was
acting like an adult.
Sunday lemonade was not understanding adults. It was watching our
parents with their sad smiles and faraway eyes while they took long
sips from their drinks and tapped their feet impatiently. It was not
understanding why they always spent so much time fingering price
tags and clicking pens as though it would make the ink come back.
Sunday lemonade was wondering why they never ran around like us.
And what’s the point! we would say.
Of coming outside if you are still going to stay under a roof?
Sunday lemonade was adults not understanding us. It was when we
were excited for our birthdays even if they were in exactly eleven
months, five days, two hours, fifteen minutes, and a few seconds.
Sunday lemonade was bragging about how old we were.
It was when we drew chalk flowers on the sidewalk, even though we
knew it would rain the next day. It was when we stood in the sunlight
to feel its warmth, even though it burned. It was when we lay in the grass
and stared at the sky, lost in our minds, thinking one day we’d shine just
as brightly.
Don’t look at the sun, our parents would say. It’ll hurt your eyes.
And don’t get too close to the earth, they said. Or you’ll get bugs in your head.
Sunday lemonade was the sourest thing we knew.
Loved it! I really love the way that the poem was structured.
One stanza looked at the Sunday Lemonade and personified it, another looked at how the kids felt and another looked at how the kids felt. A poem about understanding misunderstanding.