Jun 2015
I always walk up the stairs with a cup of tea filled to the brim. Not even walking just taking small steps periodically just in case the tea spilled. Sometimes I made it to the top and sometimes I spilled it and I would have to come back downstairs, go the the kitchen, get a paper towel, wipe up the mess, throw the paper towel away and try again.
It was a very tedious Task.
My mother used to yell at me for the times I get too lazy to clean up the mess and just allow the tea to dry up on the floor to stick.
When I was twelve I realized how many times I allowed the tea to dry up. Most of the time I didn't even care if all the tea spilled by the time I got to the last staircase. The boiling hot tea spilling on my feet and the carpet and the granite didn't bother me. My mind was wayward- somewhere unknown. My thought process didn't care to think about my mother after a hard days work coming home to yell at her old enough daughter to stop drinking upstairs. She used to get so mad at me sometimes wondering why I always said "I don't care,".
She used to despise me for it, and I did too.
Maybe I liked how the tea burned my feet causing me to walk faster, maybe I liked the pain. Maybe I was too busy to care about the abundance of spills maybe I wasn't. Maybe I just didn't care.
The whole world stopped spinning for me but my mind didn't. I loved leaving a trail of sweet hot tea for me to follow again and again, my mother didn't.
Finally my mother broke all the teacups and threw away all the tea we had in the house. In all honesty I freaked out. I could've ripped the whole house from its foundation and throw it toward the horizon. I could've take matches and burn the place down letting its ashes fill the toxic sky. I could've done all of that.
But I didn't. I disintegrated into my covers and let my bed seep me in, like tea leaves brewing. I was brewing.
And like the perfect cup of tea, I finally became that dark, rich color with the perfect amount of milk and sugar, placed onto a saucer that was the right size. I the ridges kept me in place and the walk upstairs wasn't so bad anymore.
It was a very tedious Task.
My mother used to yell at me for the times I get too lazy to clean up the mess and just allow the tea to dry up on the floor to stick.
When I was twelve I realized how many times I allowed the tea to dry up. Most of the time I didn't even care if all the tea spilled by the time I got to the last staircase. The boiling hot tea spilling on my feet and the carpet and the granite didn't bother me. My mind was wayward- somewhere unknown. My thought process didn't care to think about my mother after a hard days work coming home to yell at her old enough daughter to stop drinking upstairs. She used to get so mad at me sometimes wondering why I always said "I don't care,".
She used to despise me for it, and I did too.
Maybe I liked how the tea burned my feet causing me to walk faster, maybe I liked the pain. Maybe I was too busy to care about the abundance of spills maybe I wasn't. Maybe I just didn't care.
The whole world stopped spinning for me but my mind didn't. I loved leaving a trail of sweet hot tea for me to follow again and again, my mother didn't.
Finally my mother broke all the teacups and threw away all the tea we had in the house. In all honesty I freaked out. I could've ripped the whole house from its foundation and throw it toward the horizon. I could've take matches and burn the place down letting its ashes fill the toxic sky. I could've done all of that.
But I didn't. I disintegrated into my covers and let my bed seep me in, like tea leaves brewing. I was brewing.
And like the perfect cup of tea, I finally became that dark, rich color with the perfect amount of milk and sugar, placed onto a saucer that was the right size. I the ridges kept me in place and the walk upstairs wasn't so bad anymore.
a poem about tea which was really about my depression but through the act of making tea. poetry. wild.
