The Memory of Tea
Meditations in No Particular Order
by Ilah Sef

Spoilers: None

Certain names and situations are the property of Anne Rice, and I don't mean to contest her for them. This piece, however, is mine.

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Delicate wisps of moist steam rise in lazy tendrils of fragrance, equal parts sea and earth. An errant draft stirs them in sinuous tendrils that wind about each other as they slowly drift apart and disappear.

They entered like brilliant flower petals blown through the opened screen, with the soft rustle of silk and the bright sound of girlish laughter smothered behind hand and sleeve. Their dark eyes, shaped in the elegant perfect curve of a single brushstroke, shine with curiosity and delight as they cluster about. Slender hands set out a tray that is both beautiful and functional, a dual purpose that I see in all about me. Tiny cakes of rice and slivers of fresh fish, carrying with them the scent of the ocean. Clear broth in a beautifully lacquered bowl, the steam both sharp and sweet, tinted with the grasses that float within it. I breathe deep, letting the scents settle against the back of my tongue where I can almost taste them. The delicate mix is a refreshing change from the heavy sauces and meats so often found in the European countries I have come from.

The last droplet falls to ripple across the surface of the teacup, poured with grace and a deft twist which spills nothing. I take the cup from the hands of the eldest of them, a bright eyed child at the threshold of her second decade. The porcelain of the cup is warm against my skin, sitting easily against the curve of my fingers. "Arigato," I say, bowing slightly from the waist.

Multi-colored sleeves rise to cover smiles and giggles. It has been some time indeed and my pronunciation is lacking, giving them no small amusement. I smile, acknowledging my own error, and ask them the proper pronunciation. More laughter peals out, soft but heartfelt. "Arigato," they echo back in a chorus of bright tones. I listen, attentive, catching the flatness of my former error and repeating it as they have.

The soft light glints warm across the sheen of silken hair as dark heads bob in unison. "Hai," they chorus, still giggling.

"Arigato, ojousan," I assure them. Courtesy asks it and so I raise the cup, inhaling deeply of the steam rising from the pale green tea. It is hot against my closed lips, the steam enveloping me in the crisp scent of it. I swallow, dryly, and lower the cup once more to nod to them.

Pleased, they bow, hands clasped before them. They leave as they entered, as though a silent breeze had blown them forth, stockinged feet padding quietly on wood floor and woven mat as they retreat. The door slides shut behind them to enclose me within the warm glow of my room.

Rising, the drape of robe about me calls forth the echo of old memory buried in flesh and bone, the arm bending before the mind can recall that no folds of formal dress nestle there. With a rueful shake of my head I smooth the soft fabric across my hip. Cup in hand, I go to slide back the window screen, letting the cool night air with its damp breeze brush against my cheeks as I kneel beside it. Outside, lantern light glints in the garden, twinkling like the courts of tiny faeries alongside the soft rhythmic babble of a fountain.

Lifting the cup once more I inhale steam, letting it warm lip and cheek. When I breath out the surface of the tea ripples, the fragrance billowing up to dampen my eyelids. Below the window I can hear the insistent call of a cricket, chirruped into the deepening dusk.

Taking another deep breath, I tip a measure of tea past my lips. The heat floods my mouth. Taste comes slowly to tissue unused to variance, echoing like a dim ghost against my tongue - salt and the taste of dryness, the essence of leaf and stem and things I have no name for, drawn forth from the depths of distant memories.

Throat and lungs begin to rebel, sensing the alien foreignness. I open my lips and let the tea trickle back into the cup. And yet, when I draw in breath to cool my mouth, I can taste the memory of the tea where the air flows against my tongue.

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arigato = thank you
hai = yes
ojousan = Miss, young woman