When I’m feeling a little under the weather, I drink hot tea. I don’t really like it under any other circumstances. I remember my mom drinking a lot of it when I was growing up. And still does. For me, back then it was mostly a warm, dark vehicle for tons of white table sugar.
I’m lucky. I don’t get sick very often. Sometimes, even before I realize my throat is getting scratchy or I’m sounding a bit nasally, I seek out the little “Colonial” (as I call it) tea cup and saucer. I have two of each. They were Ken’s, though I berate myself for not knowing their genesis.
I panicked for a split second the other day. When I realized I wanted tea. (Also cluing me in that I wasn’t feeling great.) I couldn’t remember where the cups were. Still packed away? Did I donate them in my hellacious urge to purge before moving last year? Would I do that?!
Then I thought for a moment, and had a pretty good idea where they were. And I was right. I made myself a cup and carried the steaming beverage by the saucer to the coffee table and bundled up on the sofa with Kallie nearby.
There is comfort in those two cups. More than anything herbal Lemon Zinger can provide. An emotional salve imbued with the sweetest of memories. I can so easily picture Ken, sitting and sipping tea out of these cups. It was his preferred tea receptacle, too. I mean, they ARE tea cups, afterall.
The cups are dainty, fragile and stained. A lattice of cracks in the glaze decorate the bottoms and sides of each cup uniquely–yet confirming they are a pair. That they belong together.
Ken’s hands were large. spider-like. Yet skilled. Capable of minute and dainty motions when called for. Like when he would sip tea, holding the tiny handle of the cup, pinkie out. Sometimes, overexaggerating the gesture for my benefit. And sometimes–when I would spy him out of the corner of my eye–he did not–just enjoying the ritual that he’d created for its own sake.
As I still do. (Though my pinkie will not stick out no matter how hard I try.)