Friday
Like a lazy backfloat, tea bags hover momentarily in the rising steam of boiling water and like a deep exhalation waft downward to the radiating globs of honey at the bottom of our mugs. Exhaustively re-steeped the tea bag gives its final breath of flavor, tinting the water a weak amber. Conversation lingers in the columns of steam. Socked feet hang on the ledge of chairs and chins rest in the cups of hands...wandering across tracks of memory and remembering late weeknights at college after coming home from the library, dreary from writing our theses, only to put on the water for tea, hoping for something to take the edge off our anxiety.
And we found ourselves, a year later, Pj clad, staring into mugs of weak tea, working through life, working out life, working up life, and wondering when to just let it be. I can't say Leise and I had any real revelations, but I finally had a feeling of being home...in friendship.
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