I’m sipping tea just now. And smiling.
Memories of yellow bedroom walls on the second floor of our little 1200 square foot home and this warm fragrance of spice swirl together in my head. Chances are good you wouldn’t even recognize me as that person curled under the covers trying to curve away the lower back pain, curtains drawn, lights off, in silence. Too much light forced my eyes closed, and most sounds hurt my ears (even the deaf one, somehow). My skin usually felt sunburned and every inch beneath that skin felt like a tender bruise. Sitting on furniture hurt my legs. Leaning on the dinner table made my forearms throb, and I had to lean or go back to bed.
If it weren’t for the medicines in the kitchen, I’d have never gone downstairs. I suppose they could have been kept upstairs, but there was too much to manage in our tiny little half bath. Schedules, checklists, spoons, water, pill boxes, the dreaded vitamin B shots, alcohol, and cotton balls required more space than could be created upstairs. Besides, venturing down for medicine meant a chance to get something useful done. This explains why the washer was often left full of forgotten wet laundry. It’s also why all the spoons and forks were in the wrong sections, although there was some satisfaction in getting them all in the right drawer. Lyme disease isn’t for sissies.
That’s not why I’m smiling.
I’m remembering the bleak failure of not getting dressed to be downstairs when my sons came home from high school most days. How could my sons learn about being productive when they found their mom in bed every day? Sure, their dad worked hard, but they were there every day with me, horizontal and staring at walls. On rare occasions, they’d find me in sweatpants, propped up on the couch with the TV off, but most days, for almost a year, I’d be upstairs, in bed, depleted from messing up the laundry and the silverware drawer.
Nothing to smile about, then.
Now I’m sipping tea, thinking of how I could hear their voices through the open window as they came down the driveway after school. With my eyes closed, I could see every move and predict the next ones. The door would open and I’d hear the thud of backpacks hitting the floor followed by the bathroom door swinging shut just below me, and the sounds of Cartoon Network chattering up to my room.
We had a routine, but it felt all wrong. There weren’t any smells of dinner cooking, no sorted piles of folded laundry. The boys didn’t even return to an empty house because their dad and I were both at work. Instead, our sons came home to my car in the driveway, my shoes by the door, my purse on the table, the house quiet, and a shadow of their mother upstairs.
After a few minutes my heart would leap at the sound of socked feet thumping up one step at a time. Blue eyes peeked in. If I was awake, we’d visit—school was good, not much homework, the band is coming over to practice, there’s a special robotics meeting on Saturday, do I think dad can take him driving today, and school lunch was lame. They’d ask how I was feeling, was there anything I needed, did I need someone to cook dinner, and, by the way, would I like a cup of tea?
That’s why I’m smiling.
I’m making a mental note to buy peppermint tea next time I shop, remembering the countless cups my sons carried up those stairs. How many times they’d gone to all that trouble, only to find me sleeping in the end. Eventually, my eyes opened to a favorite mug filled with lightly sweet peppermint tea on my bedside table, barely warm if not stone cold, and always delicious.
I’m sipping tea, thinking of my sons all grown now, one thousand miles away. My husband and I have moved to the deep South so he could take the helm of a growing undergraduate science department. My health has improved, the worst days now better than the best ones used to be. My doctor expects improvement to continue in the absence of winter’s strain.
Life is good, but I miss the sight and sound and sweetness of my boys. With every sip, this tea carries their warmth and kindness back to me. Hot water coaxes flavors from dried leaves and petals, transforming them into fragrant sips but, mostly, tea just tastes like love.
Photo by Tim Lenz, Creative Commons via Flickr. Post by Donna Falcone.
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Megan Willome says
Donna, this is lovely beyond words. Tender and sad and sweet. Good whether the tea is warm or cold. Love indeed.
Donna Falcone says
Megan, thank you so much. I did go out and find lovely peppermint tea, too… in a pretty red can. Why does tea seem better if it comes in a can? 😉
Wendy Mauro says
Dammit you made me cry….sweet and sad, and happy too. Love these memories, and you always find that teacup half-full. Thanks for sharing and inspiring.
Donna Falcone says
Thank you, Wendy. xo Sometimes I feel like I need a bigger tea-cup, though. 😉
Michelle Ortega says
Such lovely words, accepting, peaceful, wistful, wise. Grateful for your telling. <3
Donna Falcone says
So grateful for your reading and commenting. xo Thanks, Michelle. 🙂
Will Willingham says
I do love the way they found this thing they could do, and that it’s something you have treasured. 🙂
Donna Falcone says
🙂 Me too. My oldest son just texted me from his break at work to say he loves the story, and told me to “have a cup of tea for me!” He knew I had written it, but hadn’t seen it yet, and I think it really touched him. So, I think I will go put the kettle on and think of this beautiful gem that came out of that mess.
Sandra Heska King says
Oh, Donna. This is exquisite. And I tasted love just a few days ago.
Donna Falcone says
Thank you, Sandra…. and now that new little tea infusing tea pot holds memories of that day – and so when I use it, it’s like having tea with you. All of this tea and holding people inside of tea memories has me smiling.
Laura Brown says
So touching. You might not have given them what you wanted to in that year, but you gave them a capacity for caretaking, hospitality, the ritual of one small good thing. Sweeter than lightly sweet.
Donna Falcone says
Sweeter than lightly sweet. 🙂 Thank you, Laura. I think so, now that I look back. I think so.
Charity Singleton Craig says
Donna – So much is wrapped up in those tender leaves steeping. Thanks for sharing this beautiful reflection.
Donna Falcone says
🙂 Thank you, Charity.
Laurie Klein says
. . . “and always delicious” — Donna, such a brave and loving story, poignantly told. The pictures it paints for me invite me a little into your family, your story. And they make the exuberance of your artwork I’ve seen this past year all the richer as I glimpse the suffering and enforced incubation behind daring, playful, visual joy.
Donna Falcone says
Laurie, your comment really moved me and gave me a few insights into this journey. Thank you.
Enforced incubation…. You said a mouthful, Laurie.
It’s really hard for me to come to grips with the word suffering – like I wanted to jump up and say no no no not suffering, but that would be a lie. It just feels so wrong to admit it was exactly that. I can’t figure out why it is so hard to look that word honestly in the face. But, you know what? The art is more meaningful to me because of what came before it – and so I thank you for that perspective as I grasp at understanding and accepting it all. How long can I keep stepping over it, the suffering, like it wasn’t even there? I guess time will tell, and it depends which side of me is more stubborn – the one that won’t have it so tries to gloss over it, or the one that refuses to stop digging until the raw kernel is exposed? Having moved so far away from home, it’s easier to see it all – like that part of the journey is up there… in PA. I am here, in GA, watching an old movie reel.
Laurie Klein says
Donna, I forgot to check back and so I’m just reading your reply this evening. What strikes me (after absorbing the beauty of your openhearted reply) is this:
Whether you’re stepping (or glossing) over it, digging under it, moving away from or toward it, you’re making art from it. You’re transforming it, maybe even transcending it. And that’s beautiful.
Donna Falcone says
That’s beautiful. Ahhh… maybe that’s what it means, ‘the truth will out.’
Thanks again, Laurie! 🙂