The lemons hang in the branches of the tree in my yard. Each one as yellow as a buttercup and the shape of a little football. Not long ago they were small and green, blending in with the leaves, going incognito until they were ready to be noticed. These sunny eyes looking down on us tell us it's time for making lemonade. It's time to cut through the shiny surface and the soft pith beneath. We skin them and discover that we have cuts on our hands we didn't know about. But we don't mind the stings. Emma bites a segment and the tartness makes her suck her lips in until there's no pink at all, just skin stretched over teeth. Then once the sugar and water is in we add ice and take a pitcher of it out the verandah, where we sit and drink, raising a toast to the tree and the sun that warms it.