By Vishnu Pillai
My cup holds what I once neglected,
something I only learned to cherish
when I needed it the most.
Oh, how distressed I am
to have missed its essence
until I fell sick.
Is it always the little things?
I wonder,
as I take a sip
that soothes my aching throat.
Black tea.
Simple. Bitter.
Comforting in ways I never respected
until now.
I once read:
“When the blind man sees,
the first thing he throws away
is the stick that guided him all his life.”
And I can't help but ask,
are we built to take comfort for granted,
as if it will always be there?
Do we forget
that even what once nursed us
can fade quietly
into the background of routine?
Perhaps.
Or maybe I can only speak for myself.
So I’ll say:
I do not know.
Still, I’m conflicted.
"Everything changes. Nothing remains"
so says life.
The tea that soothes me now,
if left untouched,
will cool...
and sting.
And as I gaze into the cup,
half full,
the tea begins to speak.
“I am still here.
Warm. Patient.
No ego in my stream.
No pride in your need.
You see me now,
not for flavor,
but for comfort.
Not for taste,
but for tenderness.
And that is enough.
Please don’t ask me
to stay warm forever.
Please don’t expect me
to always be here, always be ready.
When I leave your cup
as all things do—
I only want to carry
the memory
of having warmed your ache, even once.
No, I do not need devotion.
You sip.
And I soothe.”
I set the cup down.
“I won’t drink you now,” I whispered.
“Not until I can hold you with care.”
Next time,
I’ll reheat you.
And as the warmth faded into silence,
the last thing I heard from the cup was—
“I will not have turned bitter.”