Cup of Tea

Sometimes I drink tea to remember fingertips crushing the dried leaves. I never measure the amount, adding pinches as I feel the need. I let the kettle whistle, moments rising above its sound merging in clouds of steam. I pour the water slowly, always stopping at half a cup. Swirl the wetted leaves gently careful not to breach the rim. I like to let the leaves settle before adding more water, an acquired ritual I confess though the reason escapes me. I never take a sip, not as long as I can see bottom. Tea should be strong and fragrant, something to fully savor as if taste could be a sin. Places, people, and even dreams, swirling in sloshing currents of freshly poured tea and I remember each memory from cup to cup.