Where there is tea

Mid-morning.

It's empty, so the small sounds are magnified, the fridge's hum, the clock's tick, the creak of heating ducts constricting. The air is cool and carries the smell of the morning's toast. I lean against the wall for balance and pull of boots, jacket, hat, dumping everything at the door.

Without bodies the home is cavernous, quiet, and air settles like a mist of rain, dampening the couch, slicking the table. No one is here to jostle, blow, push or squeeze air into a molecular frenzy, no one but me and I breathe quietly and try not to disturb.

In the kitchen, the kettle is half full, so I reheat water, pour tea into a jam jar and wait, noting, but doing nothing about the morning's evidence, the newspaper splayed across the fruit bowl, the Cheerio sitting in a puddle of milk, the splattering of Legos and dirt on the rug, the grime on the arms of the rocker.

Tea leaves drift in hot water, staining and altering it. I cup the hot glass in my hands, feeling the difference growing between the temperature of my fingers and toes. My ribs open, spread, creating more room, more space inside of me.

Today I won't be rushed. I won't divide minutes, multiplying hash marks on the crowded clock face. I won't worry that I'm not spending time wisely, efficiently, correctly. Today I'll sip tea and describe empty places.

Sough or sounds in a foreign language

sou, suhf
noun

Courtesy of James Morton.

1. A soft, low sighing, murmuring or rustling sound.

The leader is small, thin, with eyes like black beads that flash as she cocks her head to one side and waits for a child to spread the wing of what appears to be a feathered basketball. Ten seconds pass. The basketball squawks, grows legs and tries to fly, but is stopped by the leader who has come to the child's aid.

I sit in a chilly barn, sharing the space with animals, children, other parents, who also wait. One parent reads. Another checks a smart phone. Two fathers talk. I'm the only one who knits, and I've just discovered a mistake three rows back.

The leader talks on, but I don't listen to the lesson, just the sough of her voice, rising and falling in hushed clucks -- blah, blah, blah, BLAH! blah, blah, BLAH! I unravel yarn, and wonder how, just as dogs and their owners come to resemble each other, this woman has come to talk like her chickens.