Thistle Tea

She brewed it slow, the thistle steeped— a greyish brown in porcelain grace. Each sip, a sting— a bitter bloom, but she smiled, claiming peace. At first, a wince, then less, then none— until the taste was home enough. No sugar added, no honey balm, just thorn and grass and quiet aches. “How did she bear?” they often ask. “It’s the way I like it,” she often says. But bitterness never just begins— it’s learned, one sip a day. Until bitterness becomes a friend, and even the sting— a kind of warmth.