I’ve always tried to recognize tea from its shade. It’s timber, the roughness of the leaf or the crumbling of the dried buds, but the habit is lost. And there’s a bowl with leaves we’ve been given, those that come from one home and the other, hiding in a dark cupboard behind an array of containers filled with tightly sealed bags of tastes. I think we hide them from Time, as if their presence provides a constant tonality and where the honey oozes thickness and rivers around our heads. I’ve often wondered if behind each branch someone can hear the story of its trip, the story of its picker, and of its childhood home.
I’ve spent many hours around a table, with my father and his siblings. When they drink tea, they’ll always have whatever the other is having.
We hope that lasts forever.