Grandma's Tea

“I passed through the yellow stained kitchen that was once pure white. That is what cigarette smoke does to beautiful things, it stains them, ruins them, sometimes even takes them away completely. There she stood, leaned against the stove, wearing a white laced, cross back dress, perhaps one elegant enough to wear to a wedding. It had not even been a second that she’d placed the Tetley tea bag in the scolding, pungent smelling water, that the scent danced around the kitchen, almost tickling my nose. We drank tea. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the rose colored kettle, dented with memories of my childhood, the one item that she’d never forgotten the purpose of. She located me with kind eyes, and flashed a half smile, barely parting her lips. She turned facing the flowered china tea cups, probably holding more value than all of the items in this house combined. We drank tea. With no words she passed by me briskly, carrying the now overflowing tea cups to the living room, where a disgustingly dusted, mahogany couch, and a three legged cherry wooden coffee table resided. I followed her, knowing that she’d announce her most repeated words, “The tea is ready and I hope your ears are too.” I cannot list the amount of times I have heard this phrase, for the past three hundred and sixty five days of my life for twenty two years, and sometimes repeated twice a day, therefore doubling my estimation. We drank tea. I sat down on the floor, next to the mahogany dust storm, where a tea-cup ring engraved the hardwood under my legs. Three hundred sixty five days for twenty two years. My predictions of her repeated words were right, and there she spoke with a broken tone “ The tea is ready, and I hope your ears are too.” Looking up at her wrinkled, sweat glazed face, I smiled at her. She was still beautiful to me, as she always would be. Four flowered tea cups held their place on the three legged table, even though it was just the two of us. That ship had long ago sailed, and I figured the waves of forgetfulness had already washed those drawings in the sand away, but I was wrong. The two other cups hadn’t been drunk out of for years, well, when they decided that they did not need her anymore. They would put it in softer words like “She relives all of her days the same, forgetting us all at the end, she is no use to me, and I to her” but I know the truth. Her tea was no longer good enough for them, their mouths too full of other taste’s of different tea, filled with pencil skirts, coffee cups, and perfect jawlines. She handed me the overflowing tea cup, slightly trickling down the sides, steam swirling off the top. Her gentleness doing everything in its power to keep it from spilling. She turned, her own cup in hand and sat, dust caressing over her white, laced dress. We drank Tea. I sat for a while, listening to her stories, quoting them all in my head before they even departed from her lips. Stories of mothers, stories of fathers, stories of graces from childhood, all made up, but all exceptionally beautiful. We drank tea. Our glasses ran empty as did her words. She collected them all in a soft manner, as a gentle way of saying I had over stayed my welcome. I followed her once again, but this time to the barely hinged door that had welcomed me for three hundred and sixty five days for twenty two years. She smiled, this time with lips fully parted. She sent me off quite anxiously, as she said she was waiting for her husband to greet her, his evening shift soon ending. She waved me off, as did I, walking slowly down a dirt painted path that would eventually circle back to that barely hinged childhood door. I knew her husband wouldn’t return that evening. Grandpa had passed three years ago, from the cigarettes that had stained the pure white kitchen, but every day for three hundred sixty five days for three years, she’d wear her white wedding dress, waiting for his arrival, while we drank Tea. Everyday for three hundred and sixty fifty five days for twenty two years, we drank tea. Nearing the last five of the twenty two years, the waves of forgetfulness broke heavily, upon the shore of dreams, memories and even daily tasks. Sometimes I was the mail lady, the nurse, or the gardener, a neighbor, a friend, or myself, but we drank tea. She was too poor to give beads, or bows, or dresses, or frills, too poor for an undusted couch, a dining table, or a cherry wooden door, too poor for many things, but we drank tea, and off of her tea, I became rich. I still am not clothed in sumptuous dress, nor do I partake in resplendent events, I live in a house not much larger than the one with the barely hinged wooden door, the yellow stained kitchen and the disgustingly dusted mahogany couch, accompanied by the very man from my grandmother's tea, and two curly headed babies, but I am rich”.

I raised my head, and wiped the waterfall that was flowing down my face, something I’d learned from the strong brew itself. I exhaled, exactly in sync with the hand grip I received from my curly headed babe, a spitting image of the rose colored kettle that once filled my life up. As I raised my head, I met the eyes of the crowd, each of them filled with who knows what, maybe it was tea like grandmothers, powerful and truthful, or like the strong jawlines and pencil skirts that had taken over the lives of souls I once convened with, or maybe some were filled with none at all, an empty void, with dents in their kettles that were left a little too deep. It was not the time nor the place for me to battle the swallowing thoughts that were circling my brain, so I waited for the grip of my carbon copied rose kettle, for my next deep breath. 

 Along with the waterfall still flowing among my face, and the tea still boiling upon my heart, I cast a smile, on the broken, the chipped, the overflowing; some tea cups, and some kettles, some unsure. One more deep breath, I resumed, completing the end of my spill ."I hope from this eulogy you have tasted the tea.”