It made me quite wistful. Memories of the lemonade man. Ten bottles every second Tuesday.
The memories of youth. Brown lemonade. White lemonade. Raspberryade. Cloudy Lime. American Cola.
Drinking it straight from the bottle after an afternoon spent picking blackberries. Our legs stinging from nettle stings and briar scrapes.
I held a bottle in my hand. I hadn’t seen one in a while. I examined it.
Then I read the ingredients on the back of the label….