A Morning Tea Among Thyme

Somehow, making tea had weaved into me, the roots of my soul. A vascular mesh that now throbs with a nectar so saccharine it smokes out of my pores like a bitter incense. Once I was led, from the time of falling flowers, into an unending labyrinth—clutching a clammy hand as its cold seeped into me, the sun blinding my eyes, and my heart, still wondering who had led me—where only the faint coiling of steam remained, soft against my face, like a mother of the trees promising me home. It felt as if, with nothing left to give, my existence defaulted to the kitchen, among the drying thyme—mussed hair, half-lidded eyes, and occasional yawns as I staggered around in search of my favored teacup, the one with a golden library painted upon it. Even in that numbness, there was something organic to my actions—a sort of passionate monotony—as I mindlessly swayed into my ritualistic vices.

I turned on the rusty kettle and waited. I closed my eyes and listened: my favorite morning melisma. It always began with small whispers, now raspy with age, followed by a faint whimper as the kettle struggled to keep its inner workings harmonious. A silent screech. I opened my eyes to see dull wisps of steam escaping her round, parted lips—delicate and stupefied. The kettle began to shudder and sputter, overwhelmed by her own heart, her insides scorching and cursing. A groaning shriek escaped the poor kettle—or perhaps it was exuberance, thrilled at transforming lifeless water into an aromatic blend of herbs. But, to my disdain, I knew the truth. Exuberant even as her insides burned, even as her kin spun out of her warm womb and into the air, sputtering their last breath.

I leaned into the remnants of her effort. The steam stung my cheek, but I didn’t pull away. Instead, I grabbed the kettle by its arm, roughly tossed a teabag into my cup, and poured the water in, my eyes boring into the kettle’s delicate mouth. I flinched. My eyes had shut—why? I set the kettle down hastily. The water had spilled over, forming a puddle that meandered and coiled out of the mouth of the cup, towards its source. It brushes against the kettle’s body longingly—a lover’s caress. Miraculously, I watched as steam encased my beloved cup, its golden library adorned with painted books. The kettle’s evanescence lovingly traced the gilded pages.

I blinked—and recoiled, horrified. In doing so, I bumped against a basket of drying thyme. The balmy herbs sailed into the air and lay themselves into a slumber—right into the puddle. I watched them float upon the surface gently, their scent encasing me as I saw… vitality. My eyes widened as I shoved the cup away, throwing a cloth at the puddle to smother the thyme, hiding them from the nourishment of the sun. I pushed the kettle further and further from the cup’s reach. It was senseless—a rusty old kettle giving fragments of its soul to a love that could never blossom. Hoping to reach golden libraries beyond its comprehension. Pitiful.

Finally, I sat on the edge of the ornate carpet, avoiding the sharp slice of the sun’s mercy. To my dismay, the steam curled around my face with a familiarity beyond my grasp, tracing its contours—features that appeared alien as I stared into the teacup. My reflection stared back—a grim portrait of revulsion. I couldn’t look away, as though focusing hard enough might reveal the ocean of my existence, allowing me to fish out a version of my self that didn’t scald in the presence of steam. One that could live with its disorder. A self that existed in the palaces of the women before her.

Yet, all I have now is a rusty kettle, a carpet of bright red embroidered with pomegranates, and a teacup that belies the love of its owner with its libraries of gold. Are they more beyond my reach than they are to the kettle? Must I sacrifice bits of my soul, slicing them into palatable bites of meat? Or must I, too, part my lips in delicate stupefaction as the kettle does? What secrets, so esoteric, does the kettle hold that I cannot decipher? How is its rusty red more suited to the ornate carpet than I am?

 Did the tea know it would soon go down my gullet, merging with my bleak existence? The steam, ever the seductress, licks along the edges of my vision. My eyes tear up at the minty concoction, and I glance to the window, at the mint plant emerging from its clay pot—regal as the sun shines golden rays upon it. Vibrant, lush green. Yet, its brew amounts to nothing but a deep murky yellow, with steam that attempts to allure while tears fill my eyes.

And, with one final blink, I was no longer seduced. Where once a pale cloud of aroma obscured my view, now only my face stared back. My eyes— a barren, dark soil—felt like deep, impenetrable wells.

I shook my head and grabbed the teacup roughly, taking a sip, my lips barely parting. The warm liquid pulsed rebelliously down my throat, as though taunting me, attempting to seduce my soul with its faint vitality. But it had turned bitter. I coughed, dumbfounded, even enraged. Yet, to my chagrin, I still felt the pulse of life in my veins.

In this willful abnegation I call my morning monotony, I found a strange truth: every day, my tea tasted different as it rolled down my throat. Every day, I stared into the cup and saw a face different to mine. And every day, the kettle’s groaning call dragged me from my stupor.

If I lived in a palace clad with its royal gardens, perhaps I might despise the rooster as much as I do my kettle. But somehow, I doubt that. Not when the rooster could never replicate the shrieks of a kettle, nor would it sacrifice its soul for my morning tea—the tea I clutch in my hand, the same cold hand I now know drags me through the mist. 

As I sit, staring into the depths of my cup, among the shriveling of Thyme, I search for myself. Lost somewhere in the spiraling steam and bitter dregs, hoping that one day I might finally emerge from a murky brew and into a royal mint plant, like the many women before me. So I part my lips, delicately and wide, and blow my fear into the air. I was not stuck in a monotony, but it is a yearning for what the kettle has. Now, I swallow the tea languidly, its bitterness harmonising wholly with my saccharine nectar, small portions of soul dispersing into my hungry self with a calm that belies my heart.