Clara

The teapot sizzles. 

I stare across the dimly lit area where kitchen table and tea cup cart are silently sleeping. 

There is a peaceful waiting in the pink flower painting above the kitchen chair. 

She knows someone is moving.

She knows someone’s heart is grieving. 

The teapot begins to whistle and shake. 

Whiffs of steam from the opening in the spout signs it’s time to make tea. 

Seconds later the tea bag bobs back and forth against the sides. 

It makes a swirling motion as the water turns to gold. 

Tea is done.