Floating along the rim of a gold-brushed cup, my favorite tea leaves swirl in lukewarm water.
This lonesome drink, forgone from my mind, remains quiet and cumbersome on a silent white floor. Its presence is faint. It sits, permanently alone.
Alone in presence, but accompanied by memory. Echoes of a child’s thrilled giggle scatter between its walls. It holds the reminiscent touch of anxious, bedridden hands. At the bottom, tears—either disappointed or elated—seem to form.
It lives in an expansive room. The walls are gilded in leafed gold; soupy marble spirals flood the ground. No windows are to be seen, albeit an almost invisible glass pane that hides by the door. The ceiling is decorated with cherubs and cherry blossoms, and a table on the far end holds a vase of red and pink orchids. The beauty of the room seems to center on the cup as it sits.
Still, its insignificance is made known when I walk past it, oblivious.
It watches as I stalk past—frustration clinging to my hair; irritation sticking to my hands. It reaches out with its day-old blend of lemon and peppermint, but I don’t see it. My unwavering steps shatter its confidence.
It watches as I pull out a chair, scraping my seat along the glassy marble of the room. I shove the curtains across the door, eliminating the window. Now, the cherubs frown and the cherry blossoms wilt, and the table with the vase has flowers of brown and yellow. The cup sits alone.
In a healing effort, tendrils of memory begin to stretch across the expanse of isolation, golden and glowing. They waver and tap along the handle of the cup, and they press a tender weight upon it, guiding it closer to me. A memory seeps out as water spills over the cup’s lip: a memory of books.
A memory seeps out as water spills over the cup’s lip: a memory of books.
Tea-stained books scatter across a desk. Familiar words embroider their leather binding: Moby Dick, Great Expectations, The Secret Garden. A small child, hunched over and excited, lifts and flips each page with a delicate hand. A smile shines in her eyes; she is enamored with the words within each story.
A smell of yellowed paper and aged ink fills the room though there is no book in sight. Everything is only a memory. I twitch.
The room returns to its natural, quiet state, though not for long. Quickly, golden strings twist and tug once more, until another splash sounds. This time, the memory that fills the room is not of age and wisdom, but one of nature.
In an instant, cattail fluff floods the room, dancing and twirling and living and laughing. The white dandelion-like fuzz is dreamy. Giggles echo throughout the room as the silhouettes of cheerful girls sprinkle fluff everywhere.
Entranced by the enchantment of play and carefree will, I wish to touch them; however, when I reach out—-I am met with empty air. Again, this is only a memory.
A cycle of surrealism repeats itself as the cup is prodded closer to my confounded hands. Every time it spills, a too-real memory engulfs the space I’m in. After a while, I remember every joy, every sadness, and every moment of content that each splatter seems to contain.
With each memory, the orchids, cherubs, and cherry blossoms bloom once more. The room brightens, made lively by a youthful haze. Everything becomes peaceful again.
And the cup, once in the center of the room, finally finds its place between my palms, empty, despite one last sip.
