{ Tea Time }

The spoon comes up to my lips

And there is a pause

As the golden liquid swirls and simmers--

Trembling--While the breath streams out of my mouth

As I blow.

It's hot,

I tell him.

He nods.

Another spoonful of herbal healing--

Laced with sugar,

Warmed with care,

Steeped and ready

To be consumed.

The spoon nears my lips once more

As my eyes glance down into the copper liquid.

I see flecks of tea leaves dancing near the silver

Bottom of my ordinary

Household

Utensil.

Ready?

I ask him.

He nods.

We sit is a sweetly savored silence

Running lines through our heads

As my lips remain shut by choice

But his by birth--

No room for nurture

To tease out of his lungs

The breath needed to rattle the voice from his mouth

Allowing him to speak.

One more,

I whisper.

He nods.

I set the spoon aside.

The cup burns my hands as I grip it with both palms.

But the sensation of ceramic stinging my hands

Seems a comfort--

At least I can still feel.

At least we are still here.

I move my knees

And stretch my toes,

Watching the wisps of fog issuing from my mouth as the warm air collides with the chill around me.

He is sitting there--

His eyes ever fixed on a mark I cannot see

And a light I cannot feel

And a world I can never explore.

But I know the emptiness is his façade--

Behind those glassy eyes and flushed cheeks

There is a life.

Are you there?

I want to ask.

But I don't.

And so he cannot nod in response.

But I do not need muscles contracting and releasing to signal

To me that he is still here.

And I do not need a doctor to spin a web to catch himself if this should all go wrong

And I do not need to hear any more excuses from the nurses and the specialists

And the lawyers and the relatives and the mailman

To tell me

He is still here.

I take up the spoon

And ease it to his lips--

Silently begging him to part the wall barring the way to his mouth one last time.

It's cool now,

I tell him.

And he nods.