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.