remnants of a routine morning
float & drift & waft
through tinted seas & streams
of liquid air humidified
by breaming steam
to set off (caffeine) vessels
(more) afore daybreak—or before
the rise of gaseous orbs
to light with leaf-like colour
& absorb the very shades
photosynthesized from all
the many spices swilled
by greedy lips: both mine
& those embracing the
potation i nurse presently.(less)
He always had his tea at eight in the morning. That's why, when they found his body, they knew he had been dead a least a day- because his tea, despite the fact that it was eight o' seven, was sitting, ice cold, in its saucer on the table.
My dad's mom died of ovarian cancer when I was five years old. Actually, that's not exactly true. She died of the flu, which normally doesn't kill anyone, but it killed her because of how weak she had become from ovarian cancer. So, I guess the cancer killed her,(more) but only indirectly.
Her husband, my dad's dad, was never an openly loving man, but you could tell he really cared about the family. After my dad's mom died, my dad's dad shut off completely. He barely talks to us (he only calls on birthdays) these days, and sometimes I wonder if he died when my dad's mom did and who we think is my dad's dad is simply a hollow shell.
The answer is no, he is not, and I know this because I worked up the nerve to visit him a few weeks ago. I had called him the night before I came and asked if I could visit. He responded with a grunt and a quiet, "yes," and I told him I would cook lunch for both of us when I got there.
As I set the table, I noticed that there was a mug of cold tea sitting on the table. As I reached to pick it up and dump the liquid in the sink, my dad's dad stood up and said, "No, leave it."
"Why?" I asked.
"Your grandmother and I always drank tea together, only she would talk to me instead of drink, and then it would get cold enough for her to drink it without burning her tongue. That is how she liked to spend our evenings in the last few years."
I left the mug of cold tea on the table and we ate, in silence of course.
Night turns into later that night, and I'm not sure how I got here. Assumptions were made. Some of those assumptions were a little less than spot-on. And if there's an "unsend" option in gmail, then I can't find it, and I haven't figured out the right combo of(more) words so I can ask google to find it.
Guess I'll probably wake up with one less job tomorrow, which'll put me at one less than one. I'll have a little vocation vacation, I guess. Take a break from the hustle and the bustle. When people ask, I'll call it a "hiatus." I'll have to ask my parents to send money again.
I wonder if I'm too old to have standards. Too old to still have expectations. When I look around me, everyone else seems without them. They look at me longingly. "That must be nice," I see them think. "It must be nice to have the freedom of standing up for something." These good people with good values give way to the pressures of society that I stand up against, but that just makes me hate me more.
I'm so tired. My tea has gone cold. Until tomorrow, I guess.(less)
Liquid the color of amber and reminding me of Grandma.
Summer's sweet sun beverage.
Sugared down more than a blow-pop.
I'm left clenching my jaw until the liquid has traveled down my throat to lay sloshing in my gut.
I sigh the heat of summer away with the refresh(more)ing, cavity gifting, teeth staining, deliciousness of Grandma's sweet tea.
Ode' to the one last frosty glass at the brink of autumn. When this chilled glass will be replaced with the piping hot cup of Grandpa's Earl Grey. (less)
The tea was as cold as that rainy winter morning. Daniel sat at the table, sipping the cup as he read the newspaper. The house was completely silent, save for the water drops that fell outside. His wife had already taken the children to school, and she would only(more) return in the evening.
There was a knock on the door. "It's probably the mail man" He thought, as he walked to it.
Daniel opened the door and encountered... nothing. He looked around, but the driveway was completely empty. "Weird..." He closed the door and, as he turned around, he noticed a trail of footprints. It started from the front door and went up the stairs.
Deciding to follow it, he went up the stairs. He had no explanation: no one had entered the house recently and the rain boots were kept near the door. The trail stopped in front of the bathroom.
'Honey, the tea is cold.'
As Jared waited for additional explanation or any kind of a reaction from her, she poured the juice in her cup facing the other way. He sat down at the table, wondering if she'll join him or not this morning.(more) It made him feel uncomforable, almost disgusting.
'Any plans for today, honey?'
'I don't know, I'm not sure.'
He sat at the table with his hands on each sides of his plate. He looked at his croissant, then on the clock above the sink. It's almost seven, he should leave soon. He wondered if he should say anything. Could anything in his power right now make any difference? He took a bite of his croissant and looked at his wife. Her hair was messy and she was still in her bathrobe. He thought about what he cuold do for her. He wanted to do something, he knew there is something he could do, but couldn't put his finger on it. There was something odd holding him back. He checked the clock again, got up, put on his jacket and his shoulder strap bag. The keys were lying on the counter next to the toaster which occupied his wife's attention. A goddamn toaster. He reached for the keys and put them in his pocket. As he straightened his jacket, he faced her and observed his wife's expression.
'Have fun today, honey.'
'Thanks, you too.'
He kissed her on the cheek and left with a simple goodbye. On his way to the office, in a traffic jam, a thought came to him.
'I love you', he said to himself and started to cry.(less)