Tisane

It is quite bothersome that the tea I like comes in packs of twelve. It is bothersome because I make tea fifteen times a week. Why I do this: because I am so comfortable with its warmth in my hands, like the rare feeling of self-absorbed kindness. Decree me sane.

Now my hands are warm enough. I hold them against my face until the cold goes out of it and there is nothing left in my expression but forgiveness for you. You just pour the water into the kettle, and turn the knob, and listen. I listen carefully for the scream, but that is to say I am not imposing any tenet on what YOU should listen for. I do this fifteen times a week.

Each time, my feet are cold inside my socks (which I find bothersome), my pores begin to open up from the steam, and there is a piece of myself that is desperate to know if my absence has brought them pain.