Every morning he brings me tea
His morning ritual merging into mine.
He smiles and places the genesis of my day
on the cluttered table beside me
where it steams in a special mug – how many have there been?
The white bone china with the golden ring around the top,
The violet sprinkled, footed mug,
The greedy cup…
All eventually fallen from grace or a clumsy hand.
For now it is a handmade, sea green mug, deep and dark
With a small chip that I overlook
Because I love it.
Like the chips he overlooks in me because he loves me.
And the tea, the tea
Hot water, teabag, sugar, milk
So simple yet somehow I cannot reproduce the exact same flavour
Life goes on through thousands of mornings
and only my tea remains the same.
He drinks coffee.
Loved this poem and can relate to it entirely. It is moments like this that we look back on later in life and think, ‘Yes, that was special.’ How nice to know and recognise at the time that it is special.
I too have fond memories of favourite tea-mugs, long since broken but never forgotten!