When I Think of Tea

She often invited me for tea. I remember muddy tennis shoes or bright pink jellies left at her front step as she opened the world to me behind her faded red door. Her house fascinated me with its intricate paintings and macabre souvenirs stuck in every available space.

She was amazing, too; of course. Mrs. Pratchett carried a rumor mill around her wherever she walked, leaving bits of herself behind in tantalizing flakes eager tongues lapped up and dished back out to anyone with ears. The town knew her as everything from a rich widow to a voodoo priestess, but I knew her as my neighbor.

She sent out her invitation to tea in autumn more than any other season. Most days I bounded down the bus steps to find her sitting on her porch with a book. A nod and a wink, and we rushed inside for tea. The kettle always whistled just as I set my backpack by the door and slid into my spot at her kitchen table.

There we drank tea and talked about life. Her tea tasted like the autumn days she loved: golden, sweet, and nutty. I never asked her secret, I just sipped and swallowed the warm, calming liquid as I told her my stories from school and she told me the folktales of her childhood. She specialized in spinning mystic tales, gloomy and darkly romantic even on the brightest days.

The day I started my senior year of high school, Mrs. Pratchett waited like always, and I  left my sandals outside and joined her for tea.

Only the kettle didn't whistle. In fact, the kettle remained stationary on the counter, not a lick of heat anywhere near its bottom. "Do you want me to make the tea, Mrs. Pratchett?" I asked.

"It only needs water, dear," she said, waving her hand towards the kitchen. "Go ahead and get started with it, I have a book to show you today."

As Mrs. Pratchett disappeared into the hallway, I found the pot and cups sitting on the counter. Glancing inside the pot, I saw an infuser with a collection of loose tea inside. With the scent of the tea still in my nose, I reached for the kettle.

The second I picked it up, I knew something felt off. The handle sank heavily into my palm, much heavier than a kettle should be, I knew, and when I moved towards the sink, it clattered, its contents pinging off the walls of the vessel.

Setting it down, I opened the lid and looked inside, peering in at a slant so the light found its way around my head and into the narrow opening. I took a good, long look.

Then I dry heaved.

I composed myself and checked again, biting my lip against the wave of nausea that crept up my esophagus from my stomach. No biology instructor needed, I could identify the substance easily: hard, white bones.

I stepped back, almost tripping myself in my haste. Mrs. Pratchett found me with my rear end against the opposite counter, one foot dangling as I half-perched there. I felt the wild, disturbed expression on my face, but she appeared not to notice.

"What's the matter, love?" she asked in the same tone she used for bad school days and best friend betrayals.

"There are bones!"

"Why yes, I'm sure there are."

"No, Mrs. Pratchett—there are bones in the kettle," I clarified, pointing a disturbed finger at the wretched kettle.

"Well of course," she replied, pulling her chair out with a casual nod. "When my husband died, I promised I would never have tea without him."

"You mean those are—?"

"Certainly. He's running low, though. I've boiled the marrow out of nearly every bone in order to fuel our lovely afternoon teas."

I dry heaved again.

"About time to find a replacement, I suppose," she continued absently. "Ah well, one can never have too many companions for tea! Now then, shall we?"

---

The girls with whom I share my dorm love tea. It's popular these days. They ask me often if I want to join them for a cup to talk about life.

I tip my full coffee mug in their direction. They shrug. I smile, sit down on the couch, and pull out a piece of paper:

Dear Mrs. Pratchett,
Tea always makes me think of you…