Tea for Two!

 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 able to do it as perfectly as you did.

I mean, is there even a perfect method of simply pouring milk?

When you were around, it sure seemed like there was one.

The rising aroma is not just a scent for me; it's a wave of memories, a storm of emotions.

Those infinite tiny moments we spent together.

Running around the house, around the kitchen, you trying to teach me how to cook and me making a mess. Laughing together.

You were proud of me when I first independently made chai for us, weren't you?

“Too much sugar,” you had complained, sitting across me on this wooden table we got on our first anniversary.

But your smile had given it away. You were happy with that imperfect cup of tea.

The recollection makes my own smile wider as two red teacups stare back at me from the table.

It's been almost six months since you've gone, and yet I sit alone on this table with the tea for two.