I am excited, tonight, about a cup of tea.
It is the brand that my therapist offers when I come in, prepared to tell her about the griefs and worries in my heart. In her office, she makes it in a red mug, which sometimes matches the clothes she wears, made of fabrics that move, each piece beautiful and cared for well. So often her shoes are the same shade, witchy heels and small buckles and all.
I imagine her closet; her clothes are eclectic and inviting, as is she.
Last week, she asked me to tear open the packet. “I sprained my wrist,” she explained, and I took the small, paper envelope from her hands, dropping it once and picking it up. I gave it back when I’d finished, and she shuffled towards the kettle, said one thing or another as she poured the water.
She returned with the mug, and a small spoon, and a place to rest the used bag, and I reminded myself to wait; it would be too hot, right away. She didn’t ask me if I take honey; she knows I do not. We have done this many times, though it took me months to say yes to tea, instead of just water.
Tonight is a night where I likely won’t talk to anyone after I put my baby down, except for the shh shh I’ll offer him when he wakes overnight. I’ll tell my dogs, too, that I love them before I go to sleep, I’ll tell them like I always do: you’re my best bear; you’re my best girl. I’ll listen to the sounds of my family, and I’ll listen to the sounds of my neighborhood, so close outside my windows.
My life is quiet, but it is full.
Tonight, I will be warmed by tea that I make with my own hands, in my own kitchen. I will remember my words, as I wait for the cup to cool, the ones I share first in a small room with a red mug next to me, and then with the people I love the most.
The world moves as it does; I cannot know what happens. Here, in the home I have made, I remember: I have everything I need, and a cup of tea, to boot.