I remember the days
when we were together.
In the kitchen on chilly, rainy afternoons
mom would make warm  brownies.

The memory of her singsong voice,
laughing as me and my brother
fought over who got to lick the mixing bowl,
was always covered in a soft buttery light.

Now, on rainy afternoons
the kitchen is dark and cold.

I remember the days
when on hot afternoons,
in a steamy and overheated kitchen
mom would make lemonade
despite the lack of air conditioning.

Sweat would drip down her forehead
as she squeezed out the lemon juice
but she would hand us a cup with a smile on her face.

Now, it is winter.
The stores no longer sell lemons.
But I don’t care.

I wouldn’t have been able to drink lemonade
without remembering the hot afternoons,
and the rainy days,
and warm buttery sunshine.

My cup would surely fill with tears
for all things I have remembered,
and all the things I have lost.