The Tea Went Cold Twice

May fifteenth. Mother's Day. I didn't plan to write anything today.

I made tea at eight-something and sat down at the kitchen table with a vague intention to do something productive, look up a recipe, catch up on the community center schedule, something with a shape to it. Instead I just sat there. The mug got warm and then it didn't. I microwaved it and sat back down and did the same thing again. At some point I noticed I'd been looking at the window for a while without seeing anything through it.

Behind me, the windowsill was doing what it does on any morning, the letterpress card, the two photographs, Carol's small object, all of them sitting in whatever light the day offered. I've written about that windowsill so many times that I sometimes wonder if I'm still actually looking at it or just remembering it on a loop. Today I looked. I don't know that I came to any conclusions.

Looking toward the window. Not looking at anything in particular.

Mother's Day is a day that arrives with its own weather system and I've learned to just let it move through. I closed the tab on the work thing a few weeks ago, which was quieter than I expected. This morning felt like a version of the same thing, not sad exactly, not resolved exactly, just sitting with something that doesn't require a word for it yet. The second mug of tea went cold too. I let it.