This year I find myself turning to herbal tea with great enthusiasm. They have become integral to my evening winding down ritual before bed. For most of my life I have been a drinker of tea. Only in high school did I occasionally incorporate coffee, and it was mostly on special occasions, where I felt oh so Seattle and oh so Grunge by heading to Starbucks (yes, I realize how clueless that sounds, but I was 16 and therefore clueless).
Both of my parents worked my entire life. When my grandmother was still living she would watch me during the period of time between school and my mom's return home. Each day after first grade she would have a cup of hot tea and a plate of toast waiting for me. We'd listen to Patsy Cline records and I'd change into my outfit for dance classes. Since then tea has had a special place in my heart. It's funny how repetition can both bring comfort and solidify the status of a memory. My mom has never been a home coffee drinker. She likes coffee but every morning for as long as I can remember, she has had a cup of hot tea with milk and sugar. My own tea ritual is one I tend to practice in the evenings with decaffeinated versions of my favorites: peppermint, chamomile, cinnamon spice. My love for tea and the knowledge of its role in the history of my family made it difficult to pass up this teacup print Sugar and Cream dress once it hit the sale. I realize material objects are just things. We are not a sum total of stuff. But in grief and nostalgic longing, things can become more substantive when they trigger beloved memories.
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