tea

Last night, I drank some of the tea my mom had gotten me the last Christmas she was alive, pretty much the last time I saw her and really talked to her before she died. She got me a lot of cool stuff that year, among which were a couple of boxes of Oregon chai. I was really into tea that year, especially chai. I'd dipped into the boxes here and there in the following months, steeping the bags in hot water and milk and adding some honey, my favourite winter beverage. But after she was gone, I couldn't bear to drink anymore of it. It reminded me too much of her, and I wasn't ready to let go of these physical representations of her love and thoughtfulness. The wound was too fresh, too painful to even acknowledge.

The bags themselves expired in 2016, yet I still kept them, tucked away in the back of the cupboard. And last night, for some reason, I finally pulled them out and made a cup to drink on the way to run some errands. Even now, over three years later, it's still hard for me to part with them. It's like I hold onto them because it's a way to hold onto her. But they were a gift meant to me enjoyed, and I was finally able to bring myself to part with at least one bag. I made it just the way I used to, and each sip I took reminded me of her life and love and thoughtfulness, and to enjoy the fleeting moments of love and kindness we so often overlook, the moments that give life meaning.