My mom has been drinking tea the same way ever since I can remember, orange pekoe with a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar. I would always try to steal a sip from her teacup when I was a child. Of course, I never succeeded in drinking my mom’s tea. She always caught me with my hand on her teacup before I got that anticipated taste of tea. Sometimes, if I was lucky, Mom would allow me to have a sip or two; however, she would usually swat my hand away and tell me that tea would stunt my growth.
Now that I’m older, I can make my own cup of tea; however, nothing will replace tea time with my mom. It’s more than just a drink of tea, it’s the place where we would talk about everything that was going on in our lives. We would talk out our frustrations with the world while the tea warmed our hands. We would dream of the impossibilities we would accomplish while pouring our second, or third, cup. With the tea warming our bodies and the company warming our hearts, the bottom of the tea pot always seemed to hold more promise than just the last drop of tea.
It was through Mom’s belief in me and countless cups of tea that I finally gathered up enough courage to post my imperfect writings. And I have a feeling I will be relying on many more cups of tea with my mom before I finally have enough courage to get my writings published.