Spring Morning Tea

Photo by Carli Jeen on Unsplash

Right there. 
A spot at the top
of my crown. 
An ache.
The focus of a headache
and my full attention.
It melts slowly over my eyes,
to the outside edges,
that burn with forgotten tears.
Tears that can release
at a single thought.
Or maybe a flood of
thoughts that feel like one;
a collage of memories on 
a page of what was.

I was never a past-dweller,
but what was lingers 
all around me. Boxes of
semi-sorted photos,
arts and crafts the children
made, your half of our bed.

I rarely stretch to your side.
Who wants to get comfortable
with all that space?
Who wants to claim the center
as if it were wonderful and
permanent?

The girls are gone now.
Our babies, only 17 when 
you died, just turned 21.
In their own apartment.
Far too far for me to hop in
the car to see them, 
even without the clutching 
anxiety that now hovers 
when I drive to wherever feels
like "too far from home."

From this couch, where my
body is anchored and my 
headache throbs, everything 
feels like "too far from home."

I reach for my warm tea, 
the hint of sweetness streams
across my tongue in hopes
of soothing my soul.
It's here to remind me of the
sweet simplicity of a quiet
spring morning, perhaps to
soften the ache in my head.

It's a new day and, like time, 
it's merely an assistant to
what may form, to my body,
to memories.
And I meet myself at the 
crossroads of headache, 
memories and warm tea. 

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