Over a cup of tea!

September is an impish month

when summer and autumn play cat and mouse.

One time a dollop of hot glow, another time, a dash of cool breeze.

In the half-asleep morning, I teeter myself to the stove

to make tea - a brown liquid in a brown ceramic pan, sweetened with brown sugar

and just then, it goes- the electricity.

I stand still, stare, blink and wonder

how to jumpstart the morning when the battery has died?

The body moves, but the brain lingers near the stove, holding the saucepan half filled with water.

And so the next two hours go by doing the usual and mundane

the one he and I have been doing nonstop for years

two unpoised performers filled with exasperation-

bathing the children, school uniforms, chobani and bananas, water bottles, and goodbyes.

Two hours later, the electricity is back, and I hasten toward the stove

Just then, he calls — my husband.

He inquires about me and the tea

"Common, you anyways had it in office, imagine me," I gripe

"It's not the same, you know," he replies

 and then we slide into silence

sharing the long story of a short life—

about  the regular and routine

easily blinded by majestic milestones

the unmagnificient squabble over less sugar and more ginger

why is mine less than yours

is there some more left in the pan

can you please reheat mine

 why your mother puts too much cardamom

and why my mother too many cloves.

 

About how the little girl is forgetful, just like you

and the boy is a python geek, just like me

about you don't know to pick fresh cucumbers

and I am too picky with tomatoes

about did you sleep well, as if you care

you stayed up late- watching porn, right

why can't you ever think straight? I swear

 is a tale that didn't unfold the way it does every day

and that, as Robert Frost once taught us both in high school, made all the difference.

Read this poem on Momspresso

Image courtesy- Unsplash