Tea Stains

          The kettle screams. I forgot I turned it on. Once more, my thoughts are somewhere else, tucked behind the veil of my awareness, maybe folded into the laundry that I was always too lazy to put away. I pour the boiling water anyway. The cup is chipped. It always has been, straight from the store and into the pantry. You used to call it “vintage,” but it’s just old, like the wallpaper peeling behind the sink, or the calendar I bought three years ago that I just never used.

I do not sit at the dining table anymore. I lean on the counter. It’s less room for commitment, and less room for ghosts. 

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          The tea bag floats for a while before sinking. It makes me think of bodies in lakes, how quietly they drown, and how calm the surface stays. You told me once that people don’t just go down that loudly. “Real drowning is silent.” you said with a grin. 

I stir the tea clockwise. Always clockwise. I really do not know why. Maybe because turning back is harder. Maybe because habits die hard.

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          The window fogs from the steam. Outside the stray dog is barking again, not a day goes by without it. I used to want to complain, now it comforts me. Its noise means the world has not ended yet.

I take the cup to the sink and watch as the last droplets go down the drain. It stains everything, this kind of grief, even porcelain, even silence, even time.

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          I found your note in the drawer again. I don’t read it, more like I never do and never did. I just hold it, praying that just maybe if I hold it tighter, if I wished hard enough you would still be here. 

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          They say healing is not linear. But what if It’s not healing at all? What if it’s just walking in circles?

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The kettle is still hot. Maybe I’ll make another cup.