Monday, May 27, 2013

Tea Time

And at about fifteen, through my Catholic
school, I joined Teens Serving the Elderly
to keep me out of trouble and hell. And
you opened the door of your unlit place
small fan blowing a creamy breeze, 

"Come in," you said. I introduced myself,
and you brought me to the kitchen.  "I made
some tea," you said.  I smelled honeysuckle
and ginger and watched ripples in the cup
bow to the rim. "I don't usually like
tea," I said.  "Oh you will like this," you said.

You used your hand can opener, unsealed
just a small seam, releasing clouds of milk,
condensed, sweet swirling.  "Try," you said, and I
did, and it wasn't bad.  "It's kind of like
a lemon cookie," I said. You nodded.

And then the conversation started.  You
talked about your daughter and her husband,
pointed to the photo, him in his starched
military outfit, her bedazzled
in white and sequins, me wondering what
it was like to be kissed, you saying they
would visit soon, I wondering if that
was true, you asking what I did in school,

me talking biology, xylem, and
phloem, and you not understanding, but
it didn't matter because neither did
I.  I describing the mean math teacher,
a sister, equations I couldn't get,
morality classes, literature,
Emerson and Thoreau writing about
individualism, you yessing,

I babbling.  We were both somewhere else
when you closed your weighted eyelids and sighed.


Copyright May 26, 2013
Katherine Gotthardt
Draft 1 
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