Sitting, Sipping Chamomile Tea

I sit here. In my right hand is a cup of chamomile tea.

As I savor each sip, the hurricane inside of me dies down.

How long will this partnership last? I wonder.

Please don’t end.

I enjoy another warm sip.

Like fine wine, I roll the subtle flavors around my mouth, pulling in air with pursed lips.

It’s naturally sweet, honey-ish.

The tips of my fingers caress the round edges of my cup; they relish the heat radiating away from the abyss.

Is this the kind of warmth I’m seeking? Why do I feel so at peace?

I allow myself to enjoy the moment.

Again, I bury my nose and inhale.

Though not as warm as before, its memory still lingers.

Now I look back and try to remember that first sip, drifting away into equanimity.