Cup Of Tea?

Entry by: spulusan

23rd January 2015

My family has had tea at least four times today. We listen to the unfurling of leaves in the warmest of waters. A green ocean that washes over the build up—we cannot see past our guts.

In time, things shed and we believe in this remedy. The melting of food accumulated. And after a few sips, I’m detoxicated.

I say things I usually keep to myself. My parents become loving in my eyes. My brother laughs as always.

I tell my father I have a bladder problem. He says it’s genetic like every peculiar part of me. My uneven eyes are his and so are my bathroom habits.

“Sometimes I excuse myself from class to pee and just before returning to the room, before I open the door, I have to walk back to the bathroom.

I never know when it’s empty, Dad.”

He doesn’t either. I imagine a younger him waiting for the bus, worrying about the first day of classes. His legs crossed, holding it in.

It’s called a nervous pee, I explain. 

My mother lets the faucet run and adjusts the handle for a thin stream. She catches the water with our stained cups, filling each half of the way.

“Ma, I like the tea stains. They’re like patina.”

She thinks I’m crazy as she makes whirlpools to rinse the ceramic.

The way my mother washes cups is genetic. Like her, I turn down the faucet to a thin stream and think about saving fish in the ocean.

The running faucet sounds like relief.


At the table, my brother doesn’t understand these specifics, but I plan to tell him about it later. 

He should know that the way he pinched me when we were kids is the exact way Mom teased our young aunts and uncles.

Then he’ll laugh 
and tell me that our young dad’s thick black hair fell from his head
 because I was born.

My father’s black hair is now mine.