“there’s a moment,” she began, lifting the cup to her mouth, “when you take the first sip of tea. all the world stops. time. movement. everything. it’s just you and that moment.”
i’ve known her for three years, nine months, and sixteen days. we sit here once a week in her tiny parlor and sip tea. it’s a lot of tea. 198 pots to be exact. she doesn’t believe in tea bags. “dampens the flavor,” she says. “and the soul. a soul needs tea that is steeped with plenty of room.“
my son plays in the corner of the parlor with wooden blocks her son played with fifty some years ago. i come here because i believe she needs me to, but something in me whispers as i walk up the stone path to her house that these visits are more for me.
the clock in the living room chimes three and i know it’s time to pack up the blocks and resume the conversation in another week, but i feel my soul being tugged back into the chair and i resist the practical side that says it’s time to go.
i lean back into my chair as she pours me another cup.
Saturday Stories: A (weekly) feature on PrudyChick.com. All stories are written by Prudence Landis [unless otherwise noted as a guest post]. Photo credit: Prudence Landis
