"Earl Grey--Hot"

          When summer sweated and bubbled the blacktop, in true Texan style, I iced the potion and gulped gallons of it. The flavors, like a wildflower bouquet, changed with my mood. Raspberry for lazy afternoons under the tree, and chamomile for restless nights after downing too much hot sauce. I used sun tea, in honor of Apollo, as an offering. Oolong and Darjeeling, with their heavier tones, stayed up with me through long summer nights.

Then a cold front drove down from the north, a dervish spinning among the tree limbs, bringing steel skies. Autumn’s warmth retreated and retrenched under the assault, weeping as she withdrew. The explosion of energy left a trail of loss and sorrow. Yet, I sat in safety, hands warmed by the cup I embraced. Steam fogged my vision when I raised the golden liquid to sip. My anticipation of its sweetness steeped me in pleasure.

I practiced my ritual, altered by my daily needs. Today, traces of sugar laced through the hinted flavor. Yesterday, dollops of honey hung suspended in the hot tisane. Tomorrow may lead to a deep brew of Earl Grey—hot, and cut with milk and lemon.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Saturday Morning"

            Stretching lazily, I glance at the clock, relishing in the pleasure of the late hour. No alarm jars me awake--just my own internal timer deciding to begin the new day. Shifting my feet, I feel the weight of the dog as she lingers in bed with me. She raises her head, her eyes follow me as I leave the room, but she’s too lazy to follow. I amble into the kitchen, hold the kettle under the faucet for fresh water, and set it on the stove to boil. Dipping my hand into the cookie jar, I pull out a chocolate chip cookie. Smile upon my face, I punch ten seconds onto the microwave because I know it’ll heat the chips to just the right temperature. The cat head bumps my ankle, drawing my attention to the empty water bowl. I run my hand down her sleek body, tip-to-tail, and I do her bidding. By then, the microwave beeps. Warm cookie in hand, I munch as I wait for the water to boil. The Earl Grey and honey line up on the counter once the tea kettle hisses. It only takes a minute to brew the tea deep gold.

            Cup in hand, I meander to the back door and slide it open. The dogs push against my legs as they bound ahead of me, Koi tumbling into Bridget in a fake fight that quickly morphs into a manic chase around the yard and through the bushes. I ignore them as they zip in circles around me for my eyes see only my swing in the tree. I set my mug on the side table as I situate my rump into the seat, shift my weight backwards, and hook my feet through the footrest. The morning coolness lingers under the Live Oak, enticing finches and doves into the tree’s branches. I sit and sip, floating on the moment. Eventually, David saunters out the door and nestles into his own hammock-swing. Our conversation rambles aimlessly from topic to topic. We have the entire day free to do anything—or nothing.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman