Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 46.0: September 22nd, 2008
A Cup of Tea (Story With No Verbs)
by Belinda Roddie
“Hot enough?” A taste of mint and early spring. A bit of lemon, warm sunshine on my tongue. The variety, a pleasure, a privilege, a gift. More tea, please. A whistling kettle. Just one more cup of tea.
Still no sleep, though. No helping drink, no pill, no lullaby. Only nightmares tonight, the toss and turn of my fragile body under the covers, heavy as a fresh blanket of snow. Dreams of winter, of a dreadful blizzard, shivers up and down at the thought. Not well. An echo of Not well.
A falter in my routine, a call for the doctor, the bed more familiar every day. No movement, no laughter, just hoarse coughs and deep breaths. Then blood in an empty bowl, a deep crimson shade, the shade of roses and sunset skies. A cup of tea for my throat, for my lungs. Just one cup.
But no, the doctor, a stethoscope like a coiled serpent around his neck. No biting, please. But a negative response. “No hope.” No hope! A dismal utterance, no repetition, please. Tuberculosis, no pleasure. No privilege. No gift.
My wife by my side, always, with sage and chamomile as her perfume. Sweet, bitter, sharp, all at the same time. A pleasant smell. Another cup of tea. Just one more cup. The sound of a whistling kettle. Just one last time.
Closer still, my last hour. Worse and worse, the illness venomous in our confrontation. But there, a cup of tea, a taste of mint and early spring. No more winter. No more blizzards. Just one question in the hour of deep sleep. “Hot enough?”
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since September 22nd, 2008.
by Belinda Roddie
“Hot enough?” A taste of mint and early spring. A bit of lemon, warm sunshine on my tongue. The variety, a pleasure, a privilege, a gift. More tea, please. A whistling kettle. Just one more cup of tea.
Still no sleep, though. No helping drink, no pill, no lullaby. Only nightmares tonight, the toss and turn of my fragile body under the covers, heavy as a fresh blanket of snow. Dreams of winter, of a dreadful blizzard, shivers up and down at the thought. Not well. An echo of Not well.
A falter in my routine, a call for the doctor, the bed more familiar every day. No movement, no laughter, just hoarse coughs and deep breaths. Then blood in an empty bowl, a deep crimson shade, the shade of roses and sunset skies. A cup of tea for my throat, for my lungs. Just one cup.
But no, the doctor, a stethoscope like a coiled serpent around his neck. No biting, please. But a negative response. “No hope.” No hope! A dismal utterance, no repetition, please. Tuberculosis, no pleasure. No privilege. No gift.
My wife by my side, always, with sage and chamomile as her perfume. Sweet, bitter, sharp, all at the same time. A pleasant smell. Another cup of tea. Just one more cup. The sound of a whistling kettle. Just one last time.
Closer still, my last hour. Worse and worse, the illness venomous in our confrontation. But there, a cup of tea, a taste of mint and early spring. No more winter. No more blizzards. Just one question in the hour of deep sleep. “Hot enough?”
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since September 22nd, 2008.
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