Lemonade
By Hilary R., New City, NY
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As I look out the front door window, the small blue table sits peacefully at the end of my driveway awaiting the excitement that would inevitably explode that day. A tall stack of plastic cups in one arm, and a half-eaten package of Oreo cookies sit in the other. You carried the ice-cold large jug filled with our magic refreshment, 25 cents worthy and guaranteed to quench your thirst.
Business was slow, and we started counting the cars that slowly passed us, seeing how many waved, and how many didn’t bother to look at all. It seemed the blue cars were the nicest, so we started counting how many people in blue cars we’d watch smile out their open window, but not stop. Endless hours spent hoping for a sale, the sun kept shining, like time was made for us.
We agreed that when we were old enough to drive, we would always stop.
And now the spot at the end of my driveway acts like a graveyard for friendships that have taken their last breath along with all the lemonade stands and blue car tally marks. We never made any money anyway.
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