Hot Tea Cooled
by Theresa Edwards
We sat at the kitchen table sipping tea,
me in my twenties
I told my father,
tea should be hot.
I could never finish it cool or cold.
Hot—
simmered-heat.
I’d gently press
the cup against my face
like a heating pad—
took the pain of TMJ away.
Even as I got older,
in my thirties
years away
from when I showed him books on OCD
when he took an interest in me
because parts of me came from his mold
sharing the disorder
although he never said
never admitted it to me,
We drank hot tea cooled
until my stomach curdled.
But he was my father
he liked this kind of tea,
the kind that started with no trace
of ice
Tea bag boiled
milk folded
into the beige of the cup’s border.
It’s the cold
milk, makes it bad for me,
I’d always say,
hoping to leave the tea
in the cup half-way
without hearing him grouse,
God damn it,
what are you wastin’ it for.
In my forties
I drink my tea
in dad’s memory,
still thinking I should
drink it all, knowing that I won’t.
It’s my tea, my milk, my water,
my way
to say to him, I still don’t
have to drink it when it’s cold.
I’m not afraid to throw the rest away.
THERESA EDWARDS' poetry has appeared in Triplopia, AdmitTwo, Boxcar Poetry Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, Softblow, Chronogram, and elsewhere. She has completed her first poetry manuscript “Voices Through Skin” and is working on a second collection. Theresa has an M.A. in English and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing (poetry). She, along with friend Lori Schreiner, won the Tacenda Literary Award for Best Collaboration, 2007, for their work "Painting Czeslawa Kwoka." Theresa's blog: www.tacse.blogspot.com.
We sat at the kitchen table sipping tea,
me in my twenties
I told my father,
tea should be hot.
I could never finish it cool or cold.
Hot—
simmered-heat.
I’d gently press
the cup against my face
like a heating pad—
took the pain of TMJ away.
Even as I got older,
in my thirties
years away
from when I showed him books on OCD
when he took an interest in me
because parts of me came from his mold
sharing the disorder
although he never said
never admitted it to me,
We drank hot tea cooled
until my stomach curdled.
But he was my father
he liked this kind of tea,
the kind that started with no trace
of ice
Tea bag boiled
milk folded
into the beige of the cup’s border.
It’s the cold
milk, makes it bad for me,
I’d always say,
hoping to leave the tea
in the cup half-way
without hearing him grouse,
God damn it,
what are you wastin’ it for.
In my forties
I drink my tea
in dad’s memory,
still thinking I should
drink it all, knowing that I won’t.
It’s my tea, my milk, my water,
my way
to say to him, I still don’t
have to drink it when it’s cold.
I’m not afraid to throw the rest away.
THERESA EDWARDS' poetry has appeared in Triplopia, AdmitTwo, Boxcar Poetry Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, Softblow, Chronogram, and elsewhere. She has completed her first poetry manuscript “Voices Through Skin” and is working on a second collection. Theresa has an M.A. in English and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing (poetry). She, along with friend Lori Schreiner, won the Tacenda Literary Award for Best Collaboration, 2007, for their work "Painting Czeslawa Kwoka." Theresa's blog: www.tacse.blogspot.com.
