Tea

The morning sunrise trickles in the window, the light kissing her nose to gently wake her. Bones protesting, she gets up and makes her way down the stairs towards the only luxury she is allowed. Tea. The shiny steel of the kettle meets the cold sink as it gets its fill of water. It must’ve been thirsty all night. A hungry fire is fed as it warms it up from the bottom. She recites the familiar poem of tea-making, whispering love into each and every verse:

cold water

feed the kettle

sugar

feed the kettle

cinnamon. ginger. cardamom. cloves.

pestle and mortar crush

feed the kettle

black leaves

boil

feed the kettle

She waits by the stove, listening to the kettle sing its song, bewitching you like a siren by the sea. At the peak of its song, it’s done.

She pours herself a hearty mug of tea with a dollop of honey and takes her first sip. She stands by the stove, a quiet sigh the only sound to be heard as she enjoys her only luxury in the blissful hours of the morning.

Tea.