By Zoe M. Gungon
It fills me with grief to know I cannot stop your tears
I ask, at least allow me to make you some tea
Warmth radiates from the kitchen asI enter
Your skin so cool in comparison
A mug invites you, an outreached hand, to find warmth
It holds a generation tender before you
Given to you by family long ago, to be loved now and forever
They find this routine of steeping and stirring
to soothe the heart so hurting utterly familiar
I place the mug on a counter that has seen so many nights like this
Steam wafts into your eyes, a mist on your face
The tea bag of floral notes hangs off the rim, and I wait
for a moment, though it feels heaven with you
It has steeped long enough, ready for more,
for milky white cream, for spoon against dish
I finish with petals and a dash of spice
Arousing a smoked earth to waft around the room, an undertone of solitude
The solitary time allows for a retrospection
on the intimacy of making tea for another
Perhaps it is not the tea you find so appealing
But the hands that have sculpted this mug,
that have nurtured and harvested
I hope it is because the hands are mine.
Zoe M. Gungon is a juniorin high school. Her artistic works often contain themes of memory,
retrospection on her personal life and Asian culture.
Hot Pot Magazine 