I’m up above the world, kick my baby blue, Keds-covered feet against the Grandpa-built stone wall, and sit on the wall’s gray slate ledge that overlooks the driveway at Nanny’s house. Great-uncle Mike’s maple tree shadily filters God’s sun above me and my sisters. The four of us girls take a break from our sweet, summertime tag of running around the yard, picking dandelions, sneaking into Grandpa’s kitchen garden to steal cucumber bites of watery sunshine, ignoring Mom’s sour yells as she sticks her head out of a window and scolds, “get out of the garden,” and a break from the pushing, pulling, pinching, that propels us to be pilloried by our teasing of each other. Underneath that messy ragging is sister-love. Served to us in plastic cups decorated with a fake Hawaiian grass skirt is Aunt LaLa’s sweet and sour lemonade; my cup trimmed with a pink rim, Donna’s with blue, Barb’s with green, Maria’s with yellow. We’re on our own island in Darien, having a lemonade summer.