Thirst

A cold glass of lemonade when you mouth is dry is bliss. My mother's lemonade had a splash of orange juice, which I have tried to reproduce and have failed at consistently. There's much to be said about how worthless our memories of childhood are, or perhaps just inaccurately recorded by the mind, or the sense remembrances of our tongues, our eyes, our fingers, our organs. I remember charging into the kitchen on a hot day between kickball games in the street, Agatha Drive, Bethpage, Long Island, sweating and parched and scraped, my heart pounding; to drink a full quart of Frigidaire-frigid whole milk in a bottle was the height of pleasure, thirst and its fulfillment at one and the same time. The condensation on the bottle and the sweat on my fingers swam together in my fist holding the bottle neck. I could never die at that moment, the powerfully beating milk-life streaming through me was, momentarily, eternal. It was my summer kickball elixir. 

Cold lemonade is a better solution to yearning than gin, or beer, or white wine, although every summer day I take some convincing. My soul says "martini," my stubborn thoughts visualizing the red and black letters on the gin bottle. But my tongue, my veins, my palate are doubtful. Please. What do they know about alcohol consumption, compulsive misconceptions, the adult privilege of independent choice, and how I relate to green olives and dry vermouth? All they know about is thirst, and the body's right to satisfy thirst, at one and the same time. They don't even recognize my soul or that it could be thirsty too, nor recognize my humanity, my frailty. What they seem to understand is bliss, and are undeniably capable of discerning  if a lemon is of just the right sunshine and softness for perfect lemonade and thirst's fulfillment.