Bitter Brews

Tea time.

I've had two cups of Tazo Zen green tea this afternoon in an effort to quiet the hunger within me for some unnamed unknown sustenance that might balance the dawning of allergy season.  It's not so bad for the thirst for warmth and comfort, either.  But, for me, drinking tea has always been so much more than a bag of herbs dunked into steaming water with a bit of sugar.  When I'm drinking tea, before anything else, even the flavor of the dew as it tempts my tongue to taste, I am aware that I am not drinking coffee.  Coffee is combined with whole milk and sugar and becomes the scent of my mother's breath.  With excess powdered Coffeemate, it's visits to my brother Paul.  It's the excuse I need to see my best friend, or someone I haven't seen in weeks months or years.  Taken hazelnut ground and black and suddenly it's a reminder of the little yellow house and a head of curls I haven't seen in over three months now.  It's the safe place of first dates.  It's the coffee house on Graham Road that I glance away from rather than rush into, however nice that hug was or the words unsaid.  It's the, "let's take a walk, you probably need your coffee," on Sunday mornings as Seth hops around with elation, though it's hard to say if it was "walk" or "coffee" that revved him up.  Coffee is solace, memory, comfort, and hope.
When I drink tea, I am all the more aware of coffee and how much more I prefer that particular warmth.  But, after I've gone through the flash-collage that is not-tea, I am reminded of playing cards with my grandmother on Wednesday afternoons, of the glass tea pot given to me by Patti for Christmas several years ago so that I could watch flowers blossom into drinkable joy, I'm reminded of long days spent writing, and then the last which creeps over me like that first dip into a hot bath.  While my mother drinks coffee, it was my father who drank tea, and with that thought, suddenly I'm softened long enough to savor the drink rather than gulp it down as if only to have it gone.
Tea is usually steeped and sipped.  I have always rushed the process, too eager for its comfort, constantly left lacking. 
I was younger than seven when I entered the kitchen and looked up at my father as he moved his weight about the room, carrying a mug from stove to the counter beside the sink.  Dipping his spoon into the heated water, swirling the bag he had only recently opened, Bill Rogers looked over his shoulder to impart on me one of the great secrets of life.  "Lipton is the best tea," or something to that effect, and I was handed the knowledge that everyone has their own opinions, and sometimes they are wrong.  I'm not saying that Lipton isn't the best, but when the doctor suggested to my father that he ought to quit smoking, I imagine he shrugged inwardly and believed he knew better.  My father, I like to believe, was a wise man, but sometimes clouded in his beliefs.  
Lipton, no matter how much sugar I put in the base of the cup before adding my water and bag, always tastes bitterly of snatched time.  Though, if I were to steep it, allow it the time, it would only taste bitter.  Still, in just about every kitchen, there is a bag somewhere, lingering, taunting.  When I pass it in the grocery, I too am tempted to purchase and brew it.  So, I imagine, on this particular Wednesday afternoon in May as I was preparing my first cup of Tazo, Nick and his father were hovering over the rising steam of stolen time.

What is it about dying, stubborn, stolen fathers and a cup of tea?  I think I'll ponder this with Nick over coffee.