She stood by the tea-table in a light-coloured muslin gown, which had a good deal of pink about it. She looked as if she was not attending to the conversation, but solely busy with the tea-cups, among which her round ivory hands moved with pretty, noiseless, daintiness.
Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South
PEPPERMINT TEA. I was fourteen / the first time I died. You looked at me the same way you would / an innocent thing that had just done something terrible.
GINGER TEA. Sally gets up at 4 in the morning. She puts on the kettle; steps in the shower. By the time Sally wraps her hair in a towel, the water is boiling. Sally fixes herself a hot drink. It's still dark outside - the kind of dark that doesn't let you run into a tree. Sally tosses the towel into an empty chair, takes her grief out into the backyard and starts throwing punches. She was always good at making things bloody. Anyway, if Sally lived next door, I bet she would have opened her window and yelled at the universe to just shut the hell up for a moment.
EARL GRAY. You take a good look around the room. Roses. Violets. Tulips. The rest - you don't know by name but you do know this would be the last time, or at least it's going to be a long time before you come home again.
MATCHA. Somewhere in Paris a boy saw a painting called The Man on a Pier. It's been a week, possibly more, but he can't stop thinking about it. Not the man; not the pier but the lone fish beneath a sheet of ice. You can barely make out its body yet it strikes a regal pose as if it was something else other than a prisoner.
This is something that not even a good cup of tea can fix.
- MJL
Some day, you'll write a book and the pages will be black; ink, the colour of moonlight.
Instead of moonlight you could easily have said white. You could have said something simple like I love you but you were always afraid no one would believe you so you'll write a book some day
and everyone will read it but only when you're dead.
There will be tea on the bedside table and it would never grow too cold for your liking.
There will be stars resting on the lake and they will outnumber us but they won't ever shine brighter than you.
Some day, you'll write a book but today, it's a gloomy day and the streets are empty, this whole neighbourhood is waiting for rain.
You want people to climb inside your skin, feel their bones rub against yours
but only softly - like a whisper when the night is young and we force ourselves to believe that the dead is but asleep
and so you'll write a book some day.
- MJL
MJL, wishing 2017 would end
MJL, because “i’m fine” is easier for you to swallow
Sunday’s to do list looks kind of like mine three years ago.
Water the plants. Buy milk and eggs. Prepare Monday’s presentation. Reply to emails. Wash sheets. Give the dogs a bath. Call mom. Tell her you love her. Change the curtains. Let’s try a warmer colour. Write about Tuesday’s mishaps and heartaches. Double check if the fridge door is fully shut. Take your medicine. Read poetry. Organize desk. Rewrite class notes. Delete all the sad songs from your phone. Have a cup of tea. Maybe a bit of honey and a muffin too. Go to bed early. So that when you wake in the morning, you won’t be able to say you still check up on him after all this time. No, not anymore. Forgive yourself. Forgive yourself. Sometimes you may not believe in god but you do believe in new chapters. And forgiveness is the fire that turns forests and their monsters into a blank page, patiently waiting to be written with new stories - happy endings and all. See how the trees return heavenward like charcoal birds answering to the call of their master when everyone around only see them burn to the ground. So forgive yourself. It may take three tries. Perhaps it’s going to take three years. But that’s okay because you know by now that whatever happens, trees are bound to reach for the stars. You only get to choose whether you keep yourself warm or you return to ashes.
I asked the librarian if they had any books on How to Sleep Forever.
You see, my heart broke one rainy night when Grief knocked
On my door and I let him in for a cup of tea and some company.
You see, the poets lie when they say Time heals all wounds
Because Grief did leave, but his muddy footprints stained the welcome mat.
And the birds laid their eggs. And the worms burrowed deeper into the earth.
But the sun is a cruel lover and so the grass grows and the worms die.
They say Time heals all wounds but every night I lie still and feel my heart breaking.
It’s the clock ticking, my Dream whispers and every morning
I wake to the equator pulling me closer into its embrace.
You see, my cruel lover, we were children once and we know it is a mother’s kiss
That heals all wounds. From here, we only grow older and our wounds run deeper.