Midnight Tea

Underneath the brambles, just above the roots, I sit across two berried eyes with locks of inky night. She sips her earl grey and asks me how we fare. I share how we have lost our way, without our guiding light. She passes me the kettle and sips her black French roast and reminisces over things that she loved the most. She shares her stories of her youth, and age, and age. She sips her steaming cocoa and ignores the looming thought. It lies between us like a gun, loaded and cocked. She empties her mug of chamomile and stares into its void. She sets the glass between us and hooks me with her gaze.

I swallow down two bulging lumps that stick inside my throat. It can’t be time, there must be more. I hold out my still-full cup.

“My dear, you have things to do,” she says with sorrowed eyes. “And a whole long life to lead.”

“I don’t how to do this, Mom. Please don’t make me leave."

“No one ever really knows what to do or say. You just go on with living, and somehow, you make it through the day.” She grips my hand and smiles wide. “Nothing lasts forever, not even pain. Each day you wake up it will fade, until, one morning, you forget you’re not okay.”

I clutch her tighter, as she fades slowly into gray.

“Anyway, you can’t stay here, love. This is just a dream.”