I pour water in the bright red pot, gleaming on the outside, a bit rusty on the inside. Red was always your color. Your wardrobe was literally fifty shades of it. The familiarity and warmth of the color red make me smile as I bring it to boil. “Look for angry water bubbles,” you used to say when you were teaching me how to make tea instead of stacking my kitchen counter with instant coffee sachets. I take out the twin tin containers marked “sugar” & “tea” off the cabinet and carefully put them in, systematically counting the number of teaspoons and measuring the amount in each. “I prefer coffee,” I used to whine but would still let you hold my hand as we put in the sugar, not too much, not too less, surprisingly always the right amount. Then in went the tea leaves, a bit less than I'd like, I always had a taste for intense flavors. But I rarely complained for I knew how much you valued your perfect, daily cup of tea. I then pour in the milk, thinking how I'd never been abl...
I am Giver. I am Seeker. I fail. I fall. I am let down. I am deceived. I am hurt. I cry. I bleed.