There’s nothing more profound than an empty porch with a half-glass of lemonade sweating on the rail. Who was drinking it? Why did he or she leave? When did this person discover the taste of lemonade? Was the person 5 or younger? Or maybe the person was 16 and spiking it with a spark of vodka. Why do I assume the person likes lemonade– maybe it’s half empty because that’s how high she filled it? Is there bad news in the home, perhaps an emergency she leaned into, like maybe the toddler stuck his fingers in the electrical socket and she had to run, because dad felt too guilty for not baby-proofing enough. As dads say, You know, shit happens, then move on. Maybe the person swung inside to pilfer more sugar to sweeten up the concoction. What did the person’s face look like when it was too tart? Did his or her face scrunch into a small button, reactively– pained by the citric acid? Did he or she spit it out and make a noise? And who made the lemonade? Was it the child, testing out recipes for a lemonade stand? Or was it the grandmother, spending the summer with her favorite grandkids? Was it freshly squeezed or from concentrate? I gotta know.
I stood in the sun, looked at the porch, and thirsted my way to a few lasting questions:
Whoever lives here, whatever lives here, did they simply leave this lemonade for me?
And was this glass of lemonade half-emptied by my shadow on the other side of the wall ? If so, why? What does it want to say to me this time, so that I may grow into a better guest? Does my presence make the house ache for a different stranger or am I fine as I am, occurring here without invitation, but a heavenly hunch.