I take the glass bottle and remove the plastic lid. I fill it up to the neck with water from a jug. It’s spring water, filtered tap…whatever…it’s better than our well water which is always cloudy. The well is too deep or maybe too shallow or just ‘dirty’ as the well-driller said.
I open the canister of tea and lower two sachets into the clear liquid. I take it to the back deck. I pull up a chair and watch the water slowly turn into wine. At first, the color appears from the tea bags, flowing down, like blood from a head wound. Slowly, the water turns pink. I lean closer to the bottle. Removing the lid, I sniff the tea. Funny how a color can carry a scent.
With my eyes closed, I try to detect the fragrance…what is it that I am smelling? There’s hibiscus, a hint of cinnamon, a whiff of papaya, a tad of apple, a memory of lemongrass, a dream of rose hips, a breeze of blackberry leaves, a suggestion of mango…and those rose petals again.
This is not to be put into a glass and diluted with ice. This is not to be sipped on a hot and muggy afternoon. This will not quench a real thirst. No, this is to be cooled gently, magically multiplied in quantity and then poured with love and care into a brass tub. It is the bath for a beautiful woman…a goddess…a dreamer, a widow, a lover, a wife or a friend.
This is not tea. It’s so much more.
This is what I see as I gaze at the water slowly turning pink.