I watch as my Father
Makes tea for my Grandfather
(His Father-In-Law)
He removes the lid off the mug,
The hot water, inside it, once sealed,
He dabs the tea bag, it bounces, splashing,
He tears open the two sachets of sugar
Pours and mixes it all in (with no milk)
My Father has stubby, tradie fingers,
Watching them do such delicate work is odd
Then the tea sits in its plastic, blue mug
No one says a word.
Not I; not either of these men;
The tea is cooling, steaming,
We all watch, eyes intent and stern,
For a moment, the tea is sacred, holy,
A communion
Between a middle aged Catholic and an old atheist
Then, finally, this tea, horrid tasting, I imagine,
Is taken by the handle with a trembling hand
And it is sipped by trembling lips