mom's tea

it will always be better than mine.

i've never found a cup more sweet or full of lovelifemiracles than hers
all of the love she's spent years perfecting, manifested in a simple mug
expressed in the leaves, honey, lemon.
when i was a child i thought all mugs of tea could be equally lovely
i've learned, however, that this can't be true
i refuse to believe there is a cup more angelic, more delightful than the one i hold in my hand, the one my mother crafted in that special way.
when she says, do you want me to make you some tea, the question mark is optional
because we both know the answer, i never have to say a word
my inner child cries, yes mommy, make me tea like you used to,
before i grew up and started creating problems for myself,
before i began making my own tea, before the bitterness.
it cries, mommy tell me your secret. tell me how to do this. tell me how to make it all perfect.
but i am silent.
and she interprets my invisible nod, my inaudible iloveyou, my reluctant of course.
when she says, let me know if there's too much honey or lemon, i ignore it,
i am silent, for when has she ever put in too much lemon, how can there be too much honey?
certainly never when it is a product of my mother's hands.
they say that nothing is perfect
but that's because they haven't tried my mother's tea.
those young moments of care, i've built my life around
once taught that all of life's troubles can be evaporated in the steam, i've now spent years boiling it all together and letting it driftdrift to the ceiling in little wisps of white
bad day, cup of tea, good day, cup of tea, sad day, cup of tea, exciting day, cup of tea, can't leave the house day, cup of tea, oh the adventures i've had day, cup of tea, oh those people are dying day, cup of tea. do you see?
when she says, was it good, it wasn't too tart was it, should i make you more, do you want to finish the rest, i nonchalantly answer yeah, or no depending on the situation. she smiles,
that smile, as if i had summoned a parade particularly dedicated to her with balloons and streamers and enormous floats, as if i had written her name in the sky, as if i had screamed, I LOVE YOU SO, YOU ARE THE GREATEST and flung my arms around her and never let go. that's how wondrous her smile is.
i really should have, done all of that, but it would never be enough
all of that still would not match her tea.
and i'll spend my life trying to make this tea, trying to sneak back home and make her make me this tea, trying to squeeze back into her arms, trying to whine and moan about life and all the while hear her say, it'll be okay and you're beautiful and smart and all those other adjectives mothers have to assign their children, like middle names.
and she'll spend her life making tea, teaching children,
making children, teaching tea.

i love my mom and her tea. i love tea in general. and i hate studying for spanish exams. i'd much rather spend another hour writing nonsense.