I tiptoe downstairs and make my tea and slip outside to retrieve the paper out of the mailbox in our cul-de-sac. Early morning is a very serene time of day. The house is still and quiet. The kids snooze innocently in their beds. The husband mumbles in his sleep. The dog is too tired to pay attention.
Before I step out for the paper, I fill the shiny electric kettle just to the one-cup water line and press the on button. When I walk back in, the water is already boiling and gurgling away on the tile counter. I leave about an inch when I fill the tall glass with the hot water in order to add cream and then cold water. My teabag goes in the glass, seeps for a minute—I like my tea weak unlike everything else in my life—and gets disposed of in the compost bin under the kitchen sink. I leave about an inch when I fill my glass with the hot water in order to add cream and then cold water.
Cold air envelopes me as I open the fridge to reach for cream. The bottle of cream makes a faint clanging sound against the grey tile when I put it down to remove the plastic cap. It comes off with a little pop and out pours the thick off-white goodness. We buy the tastiest locally produced cream in glass bottles. A tablespoon or so goes straight into my glass of tea. As the heavy cream mixes with the hot Chai Tea, or sometimes my first cup is Jasmine Green Tea, it swirls around in circles. In order to sip my morning beverage as soon as possible, I add a few squirts of cold tap water.
The paper is spread on the wood counter island. I gently put my glass down after the first heavenly sip and start scanning the front page headlines. The house is still quiet. As I leaf through the paper and enjoy my tea, I hear the dog yawn, stretch, and clip-clop across the floor upstairs. The morning spell is interrupted when she descends the stairs noisily and joins me with huffs and puffs of joy and the occasional lick. Morning has broken. Literally.
