Tea and Time

I stared at the mug of tea my mom had just made. She was about to do my favorite part, adding the cream. I love watching the white billow through the brown like storm clouds sweeping over the sky. We have the perfect clear glass mugs to witness this and with my eyes just barely above the counter I get a full view of the spectacle. “Mommy, how do you know how much to put in?” I ask her, mesmerized as the colors mix to the rich tan I know by heart. “Oh, I don’t know, I just eyeball it.” Mommy drinks tea every morning but I don’t always get to watch because sometimes she gets up really, really early. She is always doing something at our house. Whether it’s cooking, cleaning or hosting she never sits still. And because I’m always following her around I never sit still either. I watch as she lifts the mug to her face and breathes the steam in, taking her first sip. “Mmmm, nothing better than a cup of tea in the morning,” she croons at me. I reach my hands up in question towards her and she giggles. “You can try it but I don’t think you’re going to like it.” She says as she hands it to me. I take a sip and immediately crinkle my nose. It’s bitter and milky and gross. 

I glance around the kitchen which is always spotless. Mommy's favorite motto to us is “Leave it the way you found it,” and if every time you find a room in perfect order there’s very little space for error. That was one of the perks and downfalls of our house. It was always orderly. Sometimes when I would play at my other friends houses each room had it’s own specific mess. The kitchen countertops were covered with food and appliances, the bedrooms were riddled with discarded clothes and the basements were bursting with toys and gadgets. It always made me feel cramped, but it was nice to finish playing and just leave all our barbies and kens right where they were, mid conversation and everything. 

I loved our house though, especially when we were having an event. Mommy was the best at decorating and making everyone feel special. Today she was hosting a brunch with some of the other Moms in the neighborhood and all the kids were coming too! “Alright, are you ready to help me get set up?” Mom asked me as she took another gulp of her tea. I could tell she was really savoring it. I nodded enthusiastically. 

The rest of the morning, Mom and I spent whisking and baking and putting final touches on the centerpiece at the table. Because it was just spring we made sure the flowers were bursting with yellows and pinks. We made pancakes, waffles, potatoes, bacon and all the other fixings of a classic brunch. Our favorite way to do things here was to have the countertop lined with each dish and everyone got to self-serve. Everything looked pristine, exactly like you would see in a magazine. Just as I was putting the mini floral napkins that read “BRUNCH!” next to the cache of utensils I heard the first knock on the door. 

I stared at the mug of tea I had just made. Bewleys black tea with entirely too much half and half. Ever since I was a little girl I loved our big glass mugs and the way the cream would ripple through the dark brown liquid as my mom made herself her morning cup. I got the exact same mugs for my own apartment. The one I now stood alone in, my hands wrapped around the glass watching the colors of the tea and the cream merge into that perfect lightly tanned brown. There is no measuring when it comes to adding the cream. It’s a flick of the wrist and an eyeball. It’s a skill that can only come with practice, of which I have plenty. I knew exactly how the first sip of the tea would taste. A robust earthy flavor melting into a milky smooth finish. Lifting the mug up to my face I breathed the steam in and smiled slightly, closing my eyes to savor the moment when I would have my first sip. Placing my mouth on the lip of the mug I did just that. And I was spot on with the flavor. What could be better than having your first cup of tea in your first apartment?

Mom and I had just finished putting the final touches on the place yesterday and I looked around fondly at the way it reminded me of my childhood home with just a twinge of my own personal style. Everything was in place of course, but I had a few quirky paintings and trinkets that I know my mother cringed to place around the apartment, but she knew I loved it and she was happy to help. 

I took another sip of my tea and went through the list of things my mom and I had discussed that needed to be done before my housewarming tonight. We had already prepped a lot of the food I would have out yesterday together. She peered over my shoulder as I put together the charcuterie board that I would serve, nodding her approval on placement and huffing her disapproval whenever she didn’t agree with a choice. As we got older and moved out moms favorite quote was no longer, “Leave it the way you found it,” but instead it became, “Could I make a suggestion?” And while I often balked at this, her suggestions were usually spot on. She would allow us our growing independence but she really did love giving her two cents.

I spent the rest of my morning compiling the drinks cart and getting a centerpiece on the small but mighty circular table I had in the corner of my small but mighty apartment. Because it was fall I made sure my flowers were filled with orange and red hues. Just as I was placing the autumnal napkins that read “HOME!” I heard the first knock on my door. 

I stared at the cup of tea my mom had handed me who knows how many minutes or hours or months ago. It had long gone cold and it wasn’t the right shade of brown. The kitchen was not in order and the house felt completely wrong. People were going to be here soon and we were not prepared. Mom and I didn’t spend the morning in a flurry of excitement. I had come home late last night, putting off my arrival as long as I possibly could. I did not want to be in this house. I pulled the black dress I was wearing from my childhood closet. It was dated and I needed to put stockings on to cover my paled legs but I forgot to bring some home. It didn’t feel like home and it certainly didn’t feel like home when we were hosting an event. Mom decided to get this catered rather than put in any effort of cooking as per usual. 

It was winter and there were no flowers. I put the black napkins down when I heard the first knock. I padded over to our foyer, still not having put my shoes on. One of my many aunts stood in the doorway as I swung the heavy wooden door open. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry for your loss,” tears welled in her eyes, “We all loved your dad so much.”