Teas

The taste reminds me of her.

It shouldn't. It should be the sharp tang of a citrus fruit that clouds the air, or the wafting airiness of freshly-baked pastries. Her face should be built on the smoke of the water she's managed to combust into flame, and I should hear her sparkling laughter in the depths of sizzling meat. But of all things that conjure a memory of her sharp features, petite frame, and twinkling, luminous eyes, it ought not to be tea.

There is very little my sister hates more than my teas. She detests their meek presence in the pantry and the endless tins of herbs and leaves. The sight of my red ceramic teapot never fails to elicit the darkest of eye rolls and snarkiest retort. She allows it only because the teas are dear to me, and so they remain.

Her heart is the indecipherable scent of Victorian Spice. She's sweet and bitter and soft and burning on the tongue. Her harsh demeanor is somehow offset by the quirk on her scowling lips, the smudge of laughter twinkling her eye. She's a riddle of inextricable flavors and aroma, a contrast against herself that balances out her soul to the constantly fluctuating scale of energy. She is a conundrum, and I flatter myself to say that I believe I've peeled through the first few layers of skins. I like to think that I can understand her, but only she truly does.

When I leave next year - and the thought pains me like I never imagined - I cannot bear to leave her behind. It is not fair that these useless bottles of crumpled, dried leaves get to remain with me while the sun remains away, remote and alone. I wish to empty out all of my tins and instead fill them with the dark of her hair and the blips of her handwriting, carrying her spirit with me in the innocuous canisters. The sound of her voice crackling over telephone lines will not be nearly as satisfying as the warm ice of her timbre. The view of her ivory nose will be marred by the glow of a screen, and I shall not hear her words in the detached lettering of a text message. I shall miss her. More than words can hope to convey.

Yet her soul must remain at home, where she will finally get the chance to grow without my eyes peering from above. She will steep and adapt the knowledge and personality that have been restrained by my presence, and at last she will become the person she is destined to be. I endeavor to build a new home from the sticks and pebbles lining a garden, but now she has the chance to stand in the sun and blossom. I will shape a new home, far from those I care for dearest. But I will return, that is certain; I will visit even when I am hundreds of miles away, blue waters and grey skies marking the distance between us. I shall boil water and drown the leaves in it, and then I shall finally taste my true home.