Ritual

My sister had only been dead for three days, but I knew she wouldn’t miss our monthly tea date. On the second Wednesday of every month, we met to put the world to rights. Between the school run and the day’s looming chores, we would pause. Snatch a breath. It became routine. Then habit. Then something more. A ritual. One neither of us would miss.

For as long as I could remember, we would meet at her house or mine. Her kitchen held terracotta plant pots, warm against the sunny yellow paint. Mine was peppered with small white tubs, dried peas, and pasta lined up against the sage green tiles. I would collect water in the kettle. She would get the mugs. The shape was important. More bowl than cup and slightly curved in at the top to hold the heat. We had the same set. They were large and round and perfect to hold with both hands. Off-white with little enamel leaves. One pair in each kitchen, bought together at a market when we were teenagers.

Click. Click. Click.

She never minded that I needed to flick the kettle on and off first. Ritual was important. It kept the shadows at bay.

We’d select the tea, carefully choosing the blend for that month. Nettle for spring, chamomile for summer, peppermint or rosehips for autumn, and ginger and cinnamon through the winter. My sister would scoop the herbs into the fine-mesh basket nestled within the cast iron teapot. The puff of scent from the herbs as the spoon disturbed the dried leaves signalled the start of the ritual. Our shoulders would come down. Our smiles would come more easily. We were nearly there.

The kettle would dance as it came off the boil, and I would wait exactly one minute before pouring it over the herbs, settling the lid on the teapot, and carrying it to the kitchen table. My sister would set the cups down on the smooth polish of her table, or the rough wood of mine, and we would settle in the comfortable chairs, the teapot between us, and start to gather the threads. Every messy conversation, every tangled situation, every snarl of disappointment that the last four weeks had held, we would gather them all and carefully wind them into neat, tidy spools. Mounds of woolly frustration pulled out and wound back into small, achievable piles.

We would pour the tea, splashing into the mini cauldrons and swirling round in a glittering wave of honeyed light. The heady steam would fill the space between us, becoming an invitation to sit. To stop. To wait for a while and take a breath. In her world or mine. The fragrance would mix with our words, with the threads of our conversation, and we would savour the peace of the ritual in the sharp nip of nettle or the soothing hum of chamomile.

I shook myself. Shadows pooled in the corners of my kitchen, barren of the magic they usually held. God, I missed her laugh.

Rituals were important. I collected them like stamps. I kept them in the kitchen drawer next to the scissors, and the matches, and the broken things.

I tapped the door jam twice as I entered with my left hand and lit the candles on the windowsill with my right. The leaves were turning outside, and the air bit at me. The world spun with the grace of a dancer and sent me sprawling, ragged and raw at the edges. I had lost my sister. But I wouldn’t lose the ritual.

I began.

Click. Click. Click. Three times for the kettle. Five if it was raining or if a strong wind blew.

What if she didn’t come?

I stopped and flicked the kettle off. My fingers curled bone-white on the edge of the counter. A tight breath eased through my teeth. No.

Something stirred in the blackness at the back of my mind. Dark waters, restless with a suffocating compulsion. I knew what waited there. The knowing. The need. The images, graphic and real, of what could happen, of what would happen if I didn’t tap the door. Click the kettle. Blow just so on the tea. I felt the floor tilt, my feet slide towards the fathomless depths.

No. She would come. The images wouldn’t get through.

But it needed to be right.

I would have to begin again.

Click. Click. Click. There. Every snick of sound brought steadiness to my breath. I gained ground on the darkness. I knew it was there. But I wouldn’t be going in today. Today was the second Wednesday of the month. Each tap of fingers on wood, every click and count and rhythm created with mind and breath helped to calm the water. The trick was not to look directly at it. Something I’d had forty years to practise. The water stirred but didn’t rise. Good enough.

I pulled the mugs from the cupboard and scooped rosehips into the fine-mesh basket. Sweet and tart, the fragrance filled the air, and I felt the corners of my lips rise.

A year ago, I had moved across the country. I loved my job, but I hated the distance it created between my sister and me. On the second Wednesday of the first month in the new house, my feet found their way to the kitchen. I had knocked twice, clicked three times, and poured the tea into my mug at the table.

I had sat there, looking across the rough wood and imagined my sister’s elegant hands curled around her tea. I could hear her ring making a muted tap as it brushed against the ceramic and the soft rustle of her jumper as she leaned forward to blow across her mug. Something had caught my eye, like a light being whipped out of sight, and then I saw the steam curling from where her cup would be, and suddenly she was there.

We had performed the same ritual month after month and, somehow, created magic. We didn’t know how it happened or why, and we didn’t care. Once every month, we chose the herbs and poured the tea. Holding the space we both needed for each other. Steam would curl from the place where the other’s mug would be, and there we would be. Me in her kitchen, and she in mine.

Part of me knew that it was in this magic that I found my strength. Ritual was important. It took the mundane and made it magical. Mythical. Simple routine became something more. Something other. For me, things like counting the tiles in the shower, dimming the lights before switching them off, and touching the wood between rooms, helped to keep my head above the water. Small comforting patterns, regulated rituals, and curated control helped me to navigate this terrifying rush of a world.

This magic was the same. Because, to me, ritual kept me safe. It kept those I loved safe. Or it had. Distance hadn’t stopped the tea dates, so I saw no reason for death to complicate things. As long as I didn't look directly at it.

And if there was magic in ritual, perhaps there was enough for one more day.

Something slid from the waters.

What if she’s gone?

Cold drenched me.

But I knew the shape of these thoughts. I caught and held it like a paper flower. I knew it was there, and the edges cut at me. Those particular sharp papercuts that sliced right to the bone. I held it lightly. But to the side. Out of the light. The thought would only hold power if I looked at it. I pushed it gently towards the black lake. Setting it down on the water. The thought hesitated. The flower grew bigger. It wanted to stay. It gained substance.

No.

I turned from the flower. It tipped, then sank beneath the surface, guided by my gentle pressure. No.

There was no room for doubt. No room for worry. Not here, where the steam from my tea stroked the window, leaving beaded pearls of water behind like whispered prayers. Not here, where my breath across the tea made the ripples scatter and dance. Here I held space. For this moment. For my sister. And for me.

Rosehip steam curled from the place across the table.