Three years ago

My grandma went away

We sat down for lunch

Yesterday

Memory gone

She couldn't stay at home

Once an elegant

Epitome

Hopeful she found peace

In a mind lost elsewhere

I was surprised by

An old stare

A grin met her eyes

As it had long ago

She asked me to sit

Not to go

We talked for a while

The years melted away

We laughed and she spoke

Clear as day

She was beautiful

A marvelous echo

Of a time ended

Long ago

But she soon grew sad

Beauty foreign and strange

And she paused for one

Last exchange

With a steady hand

She took one of mine and

Asked me to please

Understand

Before she was kind

With unwavering grace

And she was now too

One last trace

And then she was gone

I stood lost and alone

Yet I did not mourn

Lifeless bone

She had found her peace

Her soul was truly free

And she chose with love

To tell me

Muddy poured the last of the tea into Eddie's cup. She used a stained tea towel as a hot pad to avoid burning her hands, even though she wore gloves, for the kitchen was cold despite the wood-burning stove. The drafty cottage did nothing to douse their despair of losing Sissy.

They watched the snow fall outside the kitchen window. They communicated their sadness to each other without using any words. There was something about despair that deprived one of energy to speak.

Muddy carefully took the last of the biscuits from the cupboard above the window and placed them before her dear nephew and son-in-law.

"You must eat, Eddie," she urged. "I cannot lose you, too."

But Eddie didn't budge. It was as if his soul had joined his sweet Virginia in the next world. But here his body sat in his black clothing, neither speaking nor eating nor moving. He was neither alive nor dead, neither in this world nor the next. His soul was stuck in some painful shadowland. Muddy knew his pain. She knew better than to try to speak to him. Words are hollow when one has lost the will to go on.

She put another log on the fire. All she could do for her dear Eddie now was to keep him as comfortable as possible while time healed his broken heart. She cursed the cold as it was not conducive to healing one's broken heart.

When she turned her Eddie was gone from the table. She had not even heard him get up. She had no time go upstairs to check on him, assuming he had retreated to his writing desk when she heard the knock at the front door.

Upon opening it, she was handed a letter from the post informing her that her nephew had died in Baltimore and was buried two days ago. Her legs went numb beneath her. Closing the door against the cold air, she stumbled toward the wooden table where she observed Eddie sitting earlier. Leaning against it, she regained her equilibrium and breathing enough to make her way up the staircase and throw open the door to Edgar's writing desk. The room was vacant, as was every other room in the cold, dreary cottage.

A dirt road wound down around the moore and up towards the very essence of dismal dreariness. The night was far from young, and the moon hung high. She shone a pale yellow-white, a beacon to her twinkling cousins, reflecting a mood of eternal melancholy. Her song reached the trees, rustling branches, and whistling back at the birds. The road was damp and only lit by the pale light of the sky; it twisted and turned, tree roots burst from the ground, warning all who attempted the visit to turn back, to go far away and never return.

At the end of the road, above the moore sat a lone house, shrouded by unkempt bushes and ivy. The front door was of a peculiar wood, rather unpleasing, as though the wood were either the strongest in the world, or about to crumble at any given moment. The song of the moon did not reach this high, for all was dead and silent but the faint crackling of a slowly dying fire.

The air was cold, yet the wind dared not intrude on this property. In fact, hardly anything dared trespass except for one. A single woman in a white dress walked along the treacherous path, avoiding the tree roots and rocks with ease. She reached the door, robed in snowy white, and she knocked a single eery knock.

Inside the house a man awoke with a start, flask in hand, sitting in a faded arm chair facing the front door. He sprung out of his seat immediately, throwing the flask across the room and stumbling forward. He reached the door, head pressed against it, eyes squeezed shut. With a creak, the door inched open until the two were face to face. He sank to his knees letting out a strangled cry, tears tracing the curves of his nose down a rugged face.

The woman just smiled. She stood there, stoic and stately, eyes drowning in forgotten sorrows.

Slowly he began to rise, weak with shock and disbelief. The woman extended her hands as if she were a dove stretching her wings in an expression of peace, a goddess reaching down from the heavens to drag the unfortunate mortal out of his engulfing misery. The moon shone especially bright on the woman whose beauty and fair skin rivaled that of the heavens themselves. For a moment, the man made no move, it was almost as if he was rejecting her offer, until he interlocked his hand with hers, a familiar motion. With this, all seemed to relax so that the noises of the moore were hardly audible.

Hand in hand the two began to depart the dismal house, toward a grassy patch below the stars. She led him forward like a siren to the sea, face lit and eyes glistening. She danced in front of him, a delicate dancing nymph among the tree until they reached the quiet picnic destination. A silvery-blue blanket lay smooth across the grass, and the picnic basket’s contents were meticulously placed atop.

Releasing the rugged hand, the woman took her place on the blanket and motioned for the man to do the same. With less grace, he took his seat as well. Neither made a motion for food. One faced the moore and the other sat staring at her glowing figure. She turned to face him once more, laid a hand atop his and spoke in a gentle yet warning tone, “My love, Wake up”.

The man blinked once, long and hard and when his eyes opened at last, the woman was no longer in front of him. He glanced down at his hand which still felt the pressure of her grasp. To his great surprise, he found not the blanket below his hand. He saw not the glorious feast that had been in front of him merely a moment prior.

Instead, below his hand was grass covering a hard earth. He raised head slightly, and his eyes grew wide with realization and misery. In front of him sat a gray stone, a headstone.

Scrambling to his feet, the man began to run, run toward the cliff overlooking the moore. He reached the edge, heart caught in his throat and swallowed. Suddenly, the wind had overcome its fear of the property and joined the man on the cliff, whispering in his ear words of poisonous encouragement.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, a familiar, moonlit hand. Yet, in front of him appeared another hand, outstretched in an offering of eternal bliss, relief from misery. Thousands of whispers made the formerly quiet moore excruciatingly loud. Torn in two equally miserable directions, he fell. He fell to knees above the moore and shut his eyes, shut them forever.

It was a normal day as we sat at out dark round table. The water boiled for the tea as it always did. She sat there smiling but something was on her mind.

"Grandma, what is it?" I ask curiously. "Let us drink our tea" she said as a tear ran down her face. I rushed to her side with a peppermint tea, her favorite type. "Grandma what is it?" I said a little more alarmed. She just smiled and kissed the top of my head. she reached out and took her tea, and I took mine. After she finished, I took her cup to the sink. She whispered an "I love you" as she vanished into the air, but I could still feel her presence, I knew she would always be there. So I keep a cup of peppermint tea on the table next to me every time I drink mine, I know she's drinking hers. A beautiful way to remember my grandma, was the last cup of tea is always warm.

I turn the tiny ear

of the china cup

and saucer upon a

lazy heirloom dolly:

"Thank you,"

"How considerate,"

"Much obliged,"

"Shouldn'ta-"

a splash of bitters

in the invite rings

like an ambered

purification ritual;

I mop the console

and suggest, myself

another go round..?

Chin chin, porcelain,

Do, dearie really--

No, I must insist:

and turn the trolley,

just a single drop

of Life's rust is left

in this old carafe

I'm a-sharing, here in

the drawing room

where the curtains

will be closing

very soon

I know I've had

the better half

of the pairing,

rendering a

contestant

on the rise with

seamy likeness

in the mist, as I--

I fade away into

the darkening

pallor of my

own shadow

01.27.23

Tea With Your host Challenge

@HeartofaWolf