Sometimes, the jar holds just what we need—
string, charms, stickers, beads.
I pencil-trace "lemonade stand" on a yellow poster board
for my daughter to flood with pink and green markers.
I learn how to lemon, how to jaw open the chalkboard stand,
how to silver-twisty tie up the beaded bracelets
she will sell to friends and strangers, how to charm
and say this is what the warm summer
of me needs—my arms cradling signs and plastic pitchers.
Daddy's got table, chairs, and cooler, ice cubes pooling
at the bottom. We blast music to the dust dance from scuffed
shoes, we holler and grin at every person passing.
Our girl basks in pride and glee, sweeping up dollars, keeping
the change and blessings. I wish my mother could see
this mixed blessing of ours, but it's like how the moon
and earth will never touch—trust the spin and temporal rise,
relax on axis, know they belong to each other. I remember
my mother's love, this tether, this tug,
this buoyancy to which I rock myself. So I don't stop blending
lemonade powder with water—our daughter spoons
the jug, says good enough. We happily pour into cups. She straws
and ices every order. There are no labels or borders
this afternoon—only pure kindness from strangers and neighbors.
For once, no one questions she is from the half of me,
the half of him, a waning gibbous setting in. I am trusting the spin.
