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My grandmother's hands caress the teapot
As she pours the tea from the silver pot.
The liquid is amber, dark with leaves,
No herbal stuff for her, just real tea.

"When are you going to find a nice girl?
When are you going to get married?"
She asks me; her eyes bore into me.
"What about that nice girl Sandra?"

I have never dated a Sandra, or know
Of anyone by that name except for my mom.

I sigh silently, today is one of those days;
A bad day, a sad day, a day of winter.

"Grandma, do you know who I am?"
I ask; maybe she is joking, I hope.
"Grandma?" she snorts. "I am not that old yet.
And I am your mother and you are my son."

I am not her son; I am her grandson.
I feel the chill of winter; it is bitter.
The memories of spring and summer
Are all that remain; winter is here.

I drink my tea- -straight, no sugar,
No milk, just bitter leaves, nothing to lessen
The taste of dry, dead leaves; no life,
No hope, spring is not coming.

We go though the ritual, with her lost
In the past, thirty, forty, fifty years ago.
It is not my world; it is hers, long past
But more and more present as her mind decays.

And I pretend to be part of that time,
Just to make her happy and see her smile,
For there will not be many more teatimes
With her before the final flakes of snow fall.

Learn more about this author, Morgan Drake Eckstein.
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