Post by Ninmast on Mar 18, 2007 15:20:27 GMT -5
One Last Cup
Themes: Family, Life
I carefully lifted the cup into my hands, the scent of the mint drifting up into my nostrils upon the tea’s hot steam. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, savoring the scent. I sipped it carefully, pausing to feel the hot liquid roll down my throat and gather in my stomach, warm and comforting. It was the flavor I always selected, but this one just tasted better. As I savored the beverage, rolling it over my tongue, my memory drifted back to my very first cup.
It was my father who first ignited my love of the beverage. I was just a boy, and like most boys, my father was my role model. I always wanted to do whatever he was doing. At night, after dinner, he would make his tea and go out to the front porch and just stare up at the stars. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but I would eventually find myself lured out onto that porch, under that starry sky, by the sound of the gentle rocking of our glider.
Now that I look back, I can’t imagine why I was so afraid of disturbing him. He would look down as I poked my head out the door and greet me with a big, warm smile before inviting me to climb up next to him, and we’d watch the stars together until my mother called for me to come in for bed. At first, after his tea had cooled, he’d give me little sips, but as time passed, I eventually got a cup of my own. He even got me my own mug for my eighth birthday, a blue one with my name painted on it in red – my favorite colors.
It became a nightly tradition for us over the years, and I eventually took to going out with him, instead of waiting to form the courage to sneak out to him. We’d rarely say anything. Occasionally, he would ask me a question, about school or the day’s activities, I would answer, and we would go back to staring up at the sky. Even after I grew up and left home, whenever I came back, we’d continue the ritual as if we never stopped. I might be gone for a month, but when we’d go out to the glider, it was as if nothing had changed. We’d take the same positions, keep the same rocking speed, and stare up at the same stars.
In time, I, too, became a father, granted with the gift of a son of my own. I took to sitting on my own porch, rocking back and forth and staring up at the stars, and I would be lying if I had said I hadn’t hoped and prayed that one day, my son would come poking his head out the door so I could invite him to come and join me, but he never did. He had the television, that stupid box with that tiny little screen that was so small you could hardly make anything out. Oh, how I hated that television … Often, I found my nightly reverie interrupted by murderous thoughts, terrible, murderous thoughts, and in them, I pictured myself doing all manner of things to that box for stealing my son from me, and at the end, my son would forget about it and come to be with me.
Of course, I never acted on them, for I knew it was just foolish jealousy. My son loved me. There was no doubt about that. He just didn’t enjoy the simplicity of the stars. Time passed, and my son grew up, and I continued to watch the skies alone. I would see him coming and going, as he left to go spend an evening with his friends, or as he was coming back from a date. I would always greet him with a warm smile and a loving greeting, and he would respond in kind. Sometimes, perhaps it was just my imagination, but it seemed like he would look at that empty spot beside me on the glider, as if drawn to it as I once was, but then he would turn away and go up to his room for the night, and I would go back to watching my stars once more.
Eventually, my son left our home, as I had left my parents’ home, and like me, he came back from time to time, and it would be like he never left. He still slept in his same room, he still sat at the same spot at the dinner table, and we would chat over the meal like we always had. Then one day, he brought someone home with him, a pretty little thing with chestnut hair and a shy smile. She was his fiancée, and they were to be married that summer.
It was a beautiful wedding, lots of flowers. They had it outdoors, under a clear, sunny sky. The weather was perfect, as if God, himself, had set the day aside for it. It was summer, but the weather was comfortable, even in a tuxedo. The birds sang to the piano music, adding their own notes to the piece as it floated out into the air. To this day, I have never heard a more perfect rendition of “Here Comes the Bride.”
That night, as my wife crooned over her new daughter-in-law, my son came out to see me on the porch. He sat down beside me and looked up at the sky without a word. I didn’t say anything. If something needed to be said, it would come out on its own, with no pushing from either side.
After a bit, he spoke. “You know, dad, I see why you come out here. It’s nice.”
“It is,” I agreed.
There was another pause. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Could I have a cup of tea?”
It was the happiest day of my life.
Time passed, as it always does, and one day, they came back, hand in hand, and his wife’s stomach as large as a watermelon. They were going to have a child. A girl, as it turned out, with gently curled, hazel hair and sparkling blue eyes that made my heart melt. I’m surprised I never begged for them to bring her over. Particularly after the first night she poked her head out the front door.
She was going to be six years old next week. I had seen this adorable little mug, designed for a child’s hand, at the store, and I had planned on giving it to her then. Maybe after dinner that evening, when we went out on the porch, she could have had her own cup of tea, instead of having to settle for sips from mine. Maybe …
The cup finished, I set it on the table to my side, and as I tilted my head back to the heavens and gazed once more on the thousands of stars in the sky, my eyes gently closed as I drifted away.
Themes: Family, Life
I carefully lifted the cup into my hands, the scent of the mint drifting up into my nostrils upon the tea’s hot steam. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, savoring the scent. I sipped it carefully, pausing to feel the hot liquid roll down my throat and gather in my stomach, warm and comforting. It was the flavor I always selected, but this one just tasted better. As I savored the beverage, rolling it over my tongue, my memory drifted back to my very first cup.
It was my father who first ignited my love of the beverage. I was just a boy, and like most boys, my father was my role model. I always wanted to do whatever he was doing. At night, after dinner, he would make his tea and go out to the front porch and just stare up at the stars. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but I would eventually find myself lured out onto that porch, under that starry sky, by the sound of the gentle rocking of our glider.
Now that I look back, I can’t imagine why I was so afraid of disturbing him. He would look down as I poked my head out the door and greet me with a big, warm smile before inviting me to climb up next to him, and we’d watch the stars together until my mother called for me to come in for bed. At first, after his tea had cooled, he’d give me little sips, but as time passed, I eventually got a cup of my own. He even got me my own mug for my eighth birthday, a blue one with my name painted on it in red – my favorite colors.
It became a nightly tradition for us over the years, and I eventually took to going out with him, instead of waiting to form the courage to sneak out to him. We’d rarely say anything. Occasionally, he would ask me a question, about school or the day’s activities, I would answer, and we would go back to staring up at the sky. Even after I grew up and left home, whenever I came back, we’d continue the ritual as if we never stopped. I might be gone for a month, but when we’d go out to the glider, it was as if nothing had changed. We’d take the same positions, keep the same rocking speed, and stare up at the same stars.
In time, I, too, became a father, granted with the gift of a son of my own. I took to sitting on my own porch, rocking back and forth and staring up at the stars, and I would be lying if I had said I hadn’t hoped and prayed that one day, my son would come poking his head out the door so I could invite him to come and join me, but he never did. He had the television, that stupid box with that tiny little screen that was so small you could hardly make anything out. Oh, how I hated that television … Often, I found my nightly reverie interrupted by murderous thoughts, terrible, murderous thoughts, and in them, I pictured myself doing all manner of things to that box for stealing my son from me, and at the end, my son would forget about it and come to be with me.
Of course, I never acted on them, for I knew it was just foolish jealousy. My son loved me. There was no doubt about that. He just didn’t enjoy the simplicity of the stars. Time passed, and my son grew up, and I continued to watch the skies alone. I would see him coming and going, as he left to go spend an evening with his friends, or as he was coming back from a date. I would always greet him with a warm smile and a loving greeting, and he would respond in kind. Sometimes, perhaps it was just my imagination, but it seemed like he would look at that empty spot beside me on the glider, as if drawn to it as I once was, but then he would turn away and go up to his room for the night, and I would go back to watching my stars once more.
Eventually, my son left our home, as I had left my parents’ home, and like me, he came back from time to time, and it would be like he never left. He still slept in his same room, he still sat at the same spot at the dinner table, and we would chat over the meal like we always had. Then one day, he brought someone home with him, a pretty little thing with chestnut hair and a shy smile. She was his fiancée, and they were to be married that summer.
It was a beautiful wedding, lots of flowers. They had it outdoors, under a clear, sunny sky. The weather was perfect, as if God, himself, had set the day aside for it. It was summer, but the weather was comfortable, even in a tuxedo. The birds sang to the piano music, adding their own notes to the piece as it floated out into the air. To this day, I have never heard a more perfect rendition of “Here Comes the Bride.”
That night, as my wife crooned over her new daughter-in-law, my son came out to see me on the porch. He sat down beside me and looked up at the sky without a word. I didn’t say anything. If something needed to be said, it would come out on its own, with no pushing from either side.
After a bit, he spoke. “You know, dad, I see why you come out here. It’s nice.”
“It is,” I agreed.
There was another pause. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Could I have a cup of tea?”
It was the happiest day of my life.
Time passed, as it always does, and one day, they came back, hand in hand, and his wife’s stomach as large as a watermelon. They were going to have a child. A girl, as it turned out, with gently curled, hazel hair and sparkling blue eyes that made my heart melt. I’m surprised I never begged for them to bring her over. Particularly after the first night she poked her head out the front door.
She was going to be six years old next week. I had seen this adorable little mug, designed for a child’s hand, at the store, and I had planned on giving it to her then. Maybe after dinner that evening, when we went out on the porch, she could have had her own cup of tea, instead of having to settle for sips from mine. Maybe …
The cup finished, I set it on the table to my side, and as I tilted my head back to the heavens and gazed once more on the thousands of stars in the sky, my eyes gently closed as I drifted away.
