Poetry By
David M. Harris
Published on: 7/20/2015
Anton Tibbe
Dear Tony: Over poker, cup by cup, you taught me about tea. You sent me to T Salon and Harney's, Whittard's, to Assam and Yunnan and Ceylon teas, touring Asia from the breakfast table. I still drink coffee sometimes, away from home, faced with coffee or bagged fannings, but tea for me, drink of my ancestors, stuck in Russia all those centuries with lump sugar or jam. Lemon, when they could get it. In a cabinet upstairs I've got the tea glasses and holders, podstakanniki. For years I tried to find the right mug for my father's tea, not knowing that his wartime British airbase cup had been a plain half-pint, elaborated by nostalgia into something rare, impossible to locate in reality. Swee-Touch-Nee bags blended the best and worst of his times, the war against Hitler and the other against his father. A history of tea, of Chinese emperors and British colonies and perfect mugs and pots, which you helped me rejoin. I would have got there anyway— less caffeine, more ritual, another point of difference between the common world and me— but I might be buying teabags still. Now, exiled in a land where "tea" means iced suffused with simple syrup, I cleave to teapot and loose leaves, to boiling water, to the cup of friendship and memory.
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