Two Leaves

While I was pouring the boiling water into the cup, I realized something. The teas I drink now are no longer those teas. At first, I thought of the most logical explanation: those teas were made with the lemon verbena plant from your yard, and these with tea bags, so they will never have the same taste. But not everything in life is logical. At least not in a human’s life.

Without realizing it, I devalued tea. It no longer has the same meaning as before.

The habit was to prepare a tea before going to bed while we watched Tom and Jerry sitting at the table. I was fascinated to understand that those little bags my mom used had the same leaves I used to go out and pick with the flashlight. A tea that lasted 30 minutes but to my distorted perception felt like hours. A tea that anticipated the end of another day. A day homogeneous and without worries beyond the whims I could have at that age.

Now it’s two or three teas a day, lasting five minutes each, while I do some activity that drives me a bit crazier. They’re an excuse to have something in my hand or to waste a bit of time. I no longer enjoy it.

Maybe I should sit down for a while and listen to the crickets.

Maybe I miss you, and this tea thing is an excuse to write you a few lines.