My Body Knows the Way to Tea

How it begins

My body knows the way to tea.

This is useful on mornings when the rest of me has made too many plans.

Left at the chair. Past the book I am reading slowly. Avoid the bag I meant to unpack on a more official day.

The kettle does not ask whether I have tried being positive.

It asks for water.

I can answer that.

Outside, the neighbor's dog announces a delivery as if the street has been invaded by a small man with a parcel scanner.

I laugh before remembering to be tired.

Both are allowed.

Eli calls to ask about a walk.

I say perhaps.

He says, Shall I ask again later or leave it with you?

A useful question is a kind of architecture.

It makes a door where advice would put a wall.

At noon, we go as far as the café.

Not the scenic way. Not the route that proves anything.

The short one with the bench beside the pharmacy.

Someone has painted the bench green.

The paint has chipped where hands keep helping bodies rise.

I like that better than a plaque.

At the café, the woman knows which cup feels lightest.

She offers it without a speech.

I have become very fond of help that does not require an audience.

Later, the walk home takes longer.

A cloud moves across the shopfronts. Eli tells me a story without improving its ending.

We stop once.

Then again.

At my door, he asks whether I want him to stay.

Today I do not.

He says tomorrow, perhaps, and means the perhaps.

Inside, the kettle waits with no opinion about the distance I have traveled.

I fill it.

The cup warms both hands.

Nothing is solved.

Tomorrow's route can be decided after tomorrow arrives. I have left the map beside the door.

The tea is ready.