Start with a lime, a lemon, a blood orange,
she says, then slice the flesh into a cup.
Smash it. Add whiskey. A shot. Or two.
Top it off with hot water. Add honey.
I do everything she says. I sip it
from my favorite cup, the one
with no handle. The persistent cough
does not stop, but with every sip
I hear her laughter, I think of how her eyes
flash when she’s feeling mischievous.
The red drink flares in my throat.
It tastes like friendship, like love.