Evening tea.

“Keep the inside of your soul as warm as your tea.” Her dad once left a clueless note in her diary reading a stupid statement. She couldn’t get it at that time but now, after feeling a cold gust of the outside and the sharp spark of her heart, she wished to have burning hot tea & an even warmer soul.

Those were the simple things which kept her halted. There are simple things in everyone’s remembrance which trigger the chords. How it always come to choices; last summer’s evening beach walk, 8 am crazy call, Monday’s eat out to beat the blue, sneaky note in the journal & a winter night’s ache – it’s 16 January, 2014, standing in the same balcony, ordinary evening, same cup and looking back at what happened; “they were the big things”, she whispered.

How it dusted off, saddens, but how it never jotted together was pinching.

” My fragile little girl, save your heart”. She recalled how mom once told her something while giving her that favorite jersey as if the cloth could guard her rib cage. It never made any sense to her, all those puzzled talks her parents would do, but now, every empty call rings the bell.

Old spice. Stumbled. We’re all smiles.
She won’t glorify or romanticize losing a part of her self, for it was a tragedy so deep, it had her cut down. Waves were splashing against each other like always, as if fighting but then settling like hugging, for love won.

“He’s not coming darling, neither would you two, nor them. Stop the torture.” Her favorite nun told her while they had that last cup of coffee before leaving the dorm forever.

She wanted to live for revenge but her heart was laced with the ashes of what once thrived fully in her blood, she couldn’t suck her own breathes. Every time she tried to harm what she sowed her self, she failed.

It was 1993, the sky was blue and she realized the warmth of unseen love and unfelt touch.

It was 2005, grey clouds, she found that memories flow with rain drops.

It was 2014, closed doors opened and she was wrecked.

It is 2015, people are still scared that the world wound end but she learnt, scars would fade.

Not living in the sulking of missing the already missed ones, drained her.

Toronto was always empathetic. The streets hugged her when she entered, the polls seemed inclined as if mourning her sorrow, the sun shining a little less strong and the wind not-so-sharp. The feeling of dependable weak being clothed her head.

Her hands trembling twice –
Both the time meeting him,
First, promising never to leave;
Again, a forever goodbye.

She breathed a cold gust into her soul, the tea was too hot to be tolerated.


15 thoughts on “Evening tea.

  1. Wow…
    Every sentence drew an image in front of my eyes, I had to shake my head to keep seeing the words. This was very deep and I can understand- not completely but maybe enough, I’ll never know the memories but I know of my own and I’m not even sure if the tea is there.

    I hope you write more- It’s lovely.

    • That put a bright smile to my face, I am glad we relate just across the screens; though with not knowing the stories completely it still is assuring to know the chords strike deep enough.


      • That’s the beauty of writing- play of words. The chords will always strike deep when they’re in the hands of a maestro.

        And when someone has experienced enough life and day dreamed, they will compose it that deep, it won’t be compromised by its conveyance- that is on the part of the audience.

        You keep striking the cords and eventually someone who understands will appreciate it, written, drawn or played.

  2. This is so heartbreakingly beautiful. I just loved this one. I’m impressed. 🙂
    And this line : there are simple things in everyone’s remembrance which trigger the chords. 

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