Hot tea has been a staple in my routine. Tea packets exist in dark corners of my bookbag, beckoning me into their world. The names remind me of exotic islands: ginger green, earl gray, chicory roast, rooibos. They steep and effuse a colored tonic. Vibrant violet. Moth green. Chocolate brown. My hands wrap around the mug possessively, absorbing the warmth as it travels up my arms, shoulders, heart, mind. The steam attacks my face, opening its pores and clouding my glasses. I relive childhood winters, curled up with my mom. Summer nights, where the air smelt of sea salt, grass, barbecue. Gentle embrace of a blue-eyed boy, whose scent was like fresh linen.
The warmth of every sip grounds me. It dissolves the knots of a heavy chest. Unfurls every thought trapped in a congested mind. I become a weighted body, content to just be. Here is the chair under my body’s weight. Now is the time to soak in youthful glory.
Tea embodies self-care. It soothes amidst the hectic. Eases a tense mind. Reminds me of life’s simple treasures. And to breathe and just be.