Grief’s vertigo, softened by the tannins of over steeped Tea, takes me back to the now. How missing Yeh Yeh takes me to places I’m unprepared to travel to, no time to check if my eyeliner is still drawn, cheeks still pink. When I return from those memories, the sharp bitterness of the cup enhances the sweet past. I sigh, toss her leaves and start again. This time, as I prepare Tea, I’m attentive to her, aware of each second, a widening aperture, until the focus is just right. I wade in the present of Tea, in her presence, then swimming in her waters to relate with him as spirit, still grandfather, but missing his scent, his hums, the only person’s humming I enjoyed.

Tea is a lake, or more accurately, a river, with glistening pigments and wafting scents that take me downstream to those other realms. I hear Yeh Yeh’s voice. 咪咪 (Mimi) is all I hear, yet it’s also enough. Do I die a little each time I miss him? Or is missing him a form of resilience-training, and strengthening our grandfather-granddaughter bond?

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