“Will you make me some tea, dear?”
Kitchen putterings. Kettle whistlings. Pouring just as the water
boils, the water that is fresh, filtered. Pouring over the loose tea
leaves, swirling them up in the cobalt blue mug, watching them catch the
light. Waiting, just staring into the hot water, the tea leaves, not
reading the future, just waiting. One minute, two minutes, three and then
pouring the tea into a serviceable white mug, straining it carefully, and
not a leaf falls through, so carefully is it done. Then poured back
again, dark unleafy tea, and one sugar and a little milk and the silver
spoon that Patrick found for fifty cents at a city rummage sale and
brought home and polished until it shone. And the tea is ready, silver
stirring in the deep cobalt blue, and carried over to the table, to the
computer humming, whirring, the keys clicking clicking clicking and ah,
-
- reach up,
-
- kiss a thank you,
- smile,
and then back to the clicking keys pausing only for long, slow sippings of
the hot tea, of the not quite scalding, perfect temperature, perfectly
prepared with love and care, dark Ceylon tea.
holes forest
roses rust