Lemonade, so tart that it makes your eyes water. Just like your mom used to make. It’s in one of those plastic cups that always tastes like the cupboard in which it was sitting. The ones that everyone had in the early 2000’s, the edges a bit torn and sharp from being gnawed on by hundreds of little teeth. Your favourite was always the blue one, and it feels like home in your hand.
You sit down on the swing set—the side meant for younger kids that looks like an adapted porch swing. The metal squeaks beneath your weight. You haven’t sat down here in a while, your knees are hugged against your chest and red paint chips away against your fingers.
There is a home movie you saw once; your mom was recording you through the open kitchen window, and you were swinging on that same swing set. A little white cap was shielding you from the sun, your velcro shoes pumping back and forth to gain altitude. Old enough to be on the real swing, not the porch swing. The border collie that licked your toes to claim you as an infant is slowly running laps around you, trying to protect you. Her name was Misty.
The paint is shiny and new in the video, crisp apple red, and the cedar tree by the garage is not yet tilting wildly to the left. From the grainy footage, you can see that you are scowling in concentration. Five years old and you look furious at something. The world. The junior-league soccer jersey slumped on the grass within frame. The gravity that keeps you from swinging 360 degrees around the bar above you.
That’s why you have the start of frown lines at age twenty-six. Because you have never known how to keep your emotions in check, and away from your face. Your mom used to chide, “Not everyone needs to know what you are thinking.” Why not though? You think interesting thoughts.
You remember that when especially upset, your mom would practice calming, anxiety reducing exercises with you. Silly things that actually sometimes helped, like quick-fix aura cleanses. She would have you close your eyes while she traced outlines with her fingers just centimeters from your scalp, your shoulders, your face, brushing away all the fear and negativity. The scent of satsuma hand cream would be ripe in your nostrils, you becoming Pavlov’s dog to that smell, even now.
Such techniques took away some, but not all of the troubles you used to scowl over. It didn’t help the worry that Misty was getting older, her paws no longer stained green from running too fast through freshly cut grass. Or the worry that the new house your parents moved you into isn’t as nice as the old house. That your toys, some still in boxes, won’t all fit into your new room. Or that your fresh, still pink little brother won’t like it either. He was swaddled just out of the camera’s frame with your mom, blue eyes like glaciers, and a little mess of peach fuzz on his head.
It was all there in that home-movie, grainy and muted as the old film had become. You could see the worry in your eyes, or at least the shadow of it. Hidden behind scraped knees and milky sunscreen. Panicked, but not exactly knowing why. You remember sobbing over half-time orange slices that night, your emotions getting the best of you, again.
But it all tastes the same out of that blue plastic cup, twenty years later. It all comes out in the wash. No point crying over spilt milk, as they say. The only thing to worry about now is who will trim the cedar tree, now dangerously lopsided. Or who might want to buy an old, paint-chipped and rusting swing set. It still works ok, even if it squeaks a bit, and it’s as safe as ever. Just remember to teach the new owner about quick-fix aura cleanses. They’ll have to figure it out on their own, from there.
