Just over one year ago, my friend was murdered by her ex-husband. Her name was Brittany and she was 27 years old. A second roommate was also murdered and a third roommate (my close friend) was injured and survived. Sometime in that week, Brittany and my friend ordered tea, which they never received. After the one year anniversary of a very long year, my friend replaced the tea and shared it with a few of Brittany's friends. He only asked that we take the moments of quiet reflection and journaling. Journaling anything that comes to mind, about the tea, about Brittany, about ourselves.
I've been looking for myself recently and in death, I find Brittany a constant source of thought-provocation.
I had been trying to find the perfect time to relax and try the first tea, and being so busy or paralyzed in being overwhelmed with life lately, I hadn't found that time. I had decided on Mango as my first tasting, but finally determined that there never is a good, perfect time to sit and relax with a cup of tea. (I have three kids and it's summer.) You have to make your own and I realized if I keep putting it off, there will never be a perfect time and the teas (and the memory) would have been wasted. I've wasted too much already.
While the water boils, I turn the tea bag over in my hand. I smell it – nothing unusual or special. I prepare my breakfast – a savory scone, zucchini bread and half a kiwi. I don't know why I chose a kiwi at Fresh Market; I only knew that I did not want mangoes or strawberries.
The tea (as you will see) is very dark. I add nothing, wanting to find the appeal that Brittany found in this Mango Black Tea.
I take a tiny sip (it is much too hot for anything else) and that is when it hits me full in the face. I can feel my eyes brighten and my nostrils flare as my lips curl into a small smile.
It is the fruity tang of the mango. It surprises me and I slurp a little and smile broadly at the tea.
It definitely did not smell this enticing before the hot water soaked into the tea bag. What a tremendous difference and a welcome one. I was all set to not like this one, so my surprise was truly powerful in how all of my senses responded to it.
I've added my sugar, but no milk. I always add milk, but I know that it would change the fruity smell and the taste and it is truly the smell that gives it the flavor that I'm enjoying. The senses are a funny thing. I notice the bag (after I've taken it out) and the tea spreads across the napkin and I can't help but think of how much Brittany's influence and inspiration is spreading and will continue to spread; for some through her life and for others through her death. I also know that while it's not forced I am almost feeling ridiculous at waxing philosophical and how in with something like this – this ritual – it is almost expected and therefore can't be helped.
The smell as I put my lips to the mug is an introduction to the mango flavor – a warm greeting, like a tap on the shoulder – "here I am." As the cup is drawn closer to my face and the heat and steam go up into my nostrils, the mango scent is still s surprise in each sip. I tried the mango first because it was the one I least wanted to try. I don't like fruit teas. I really do, so the surprise is palpable. I add this to my list of teas for the teacher's gifts at Christmas so I can share the pleasing surprise with them.
I spent almost an hour sipping tea and writing most of this in my special journal; the journal that went with me to Wales and Denver and my quiet time at Starbucks. I liked the physicality of writing by hand, the ritual, the mandatory sip and jot and slow down, but the thoughts came too fast and I could barely read my handwriting for transcribing it for all of you. My kids were entirely cooperative, keeping themselves busy (and a rarer feat: quiet) almost the entire time I was enjoying my tea, Brittany's tea, thinking and writing.
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