the alarm rings
exactly at five thirty,
the sun is barely awake
but the terracotta sprawling
lazily about the house
has woken up to
the sound of foghorns and
morning bells— full throated,
exploding into a prayer
like the gush of steam
rising up from a whistling teapot.
mother, with groggy footsteps
marches up to the kitchen,
yawning and clicking
where the glistening crockery
has already made
itself prepared to chatter
while breathing in
fresh winter morning air
tinged with the lingering
saltiness of last night,
and the herbs have
all groped
their pedicles
on counters that have to be
wiped and dried
and wiped again.
mother turns on the stove,
a beautiful blue flame,
she puts on
the teapot
and begins to brew raw
tea, this early in the morning.
she likes her tea with
tulsi and ginger,—
a remedy for bad throats
she keeps ready in the kitchen
where
she always sings,
where the herbs,
clinging tightly to their
tender shafts
softly sing with her,
their eyes swaying under its influence,
and then
fixating on the teapot
where they are added,
well, counted and sniffed first,
and then, carefully
snucked in.
the whole house
awakens to the aroma
of the milk breathing
through the herbs,
and the loose tea leaves,
inhaling and exhaling
as if with a patience
that is disposable.
father gathers the cups
and saucers
and mother strains tea
with a love
that knows no absence,—
naïve and innocent,
and while they sip
this crisp, undried
concoction,
they are reminded
of the perks
of being young
and youthful;
juvenile
and artless;
how they aren't
either anymore
and they
s t e a d i l y, s l o w l y,
in their own sweet time,
come to laugh about
this dichotomous
autumn of their lives.