The reason for this sudden switch is up for speculation. Perhaps he felt guilty that I was firing up the coffee pot every morning for just him. Maybe he figured he was better off without the caffeine. Maybe he liked that he could make a cup of tea all by himself--independence and all that. Or maybe he read something in the newspaper or Time magazine about the health benefits of drinking tea. In reality it's probably all of the above.
His tea of choice? Good Earth's Jasmine Green Tea (shameless plug for Good Earth.....like it'll do me any good).
The point of this little anecdote? Well, I thought it was worth sharing what Dad said this morning as he waited patiently for the teapot to boil. You see......underneath all of the frustrating qualities that my Dad possesses--the need to be in control, the chauvinism, the over-protectiveness, the pathological stubbornness, and.....oh yeah, the need to be in control (wait, did I already mention that one? oops)--lies a deep current for all things poetic. For the most part, Dad views the world in poetic terms. It's just that, by the time the poetry crawls its way through the stubbornness, scrapes past the over-protectiveness, detours past the chauvinism, and finally, slogs across the need to be in control, there's generally not much poetry left. Most of the time, especially lately, what does manage to make its way to the surface is stuff like Dad's typical, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" or "WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLE DOES SOMETHING LIKE THAT?" or, my personal favorite, the succinct but always abrasive and utterly jarring, "HEY!....."
But this morning...........this morning Dad wheeled into the kitchen and was standing at the stove waiting for the teapot to boil. I was standing next to him, cooking up a pot of soup for dinner tonight. It was quiet for about half a minute before Dad started talking (in his inside voice for a change).
"You know why I like Jasmine Green Tea?"
His tone was gentle, like a warm smile. I turned toward him, leaned back against the counter, put my hands in my pockets and said only, "What's that Dad?"
He continued, "Well.........when I bring the mug up to my mouth to drink it, I first smell the bouquet of jasmine with my nose, then when I take a sip, I get the soothing flavor of the green tea in my mouth."
Seriously, it could have been a commercial for green tea. Clearly, the poetry had somehow managed to blaze a trail to the surface, completely intact and unscathed. It was really a lovely moment--the quiet of the morning; soup simmering on the stove, wisps of Jasmine Green Tea wafting their way into the kitchen air, and now a bit of poetic reflection from my father. I just stood there, smiling at him and could only reply with a simple, "awesome."
Then Dad carefully placed his tea on the walker, turned away slowly from the stove (so as not to spill the tea), and headed for the living room where his Sunday paper awaited.
Two steps later, the slogging had apparently resumed. "HEY!....."
Annnnnd, he's back.
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