8

It has been a long time
since tea touched my hands—
a cup,
warm,
familiar.

It is comfort poured into porcelain,
a breath of steam
that carries me back—
not just back—
but home.

Time softens in the swirl,
and I am again
at grandma’s table,
sunlight on linoleum,
her hands folding stories
into the silence as she works.

When I hold the cup,
I hold her—
not in memory,
but in weight,
in warmth,
in everything that lingers
after the sip.