Winter afternoons
I can hear the kettle boiling over from my office, so I rise eagerly from my chair and follow a familiar path to the kitchen. Open cabinet, grab honey, pick up a mug from the drying rack by the sink. A dollop of honey goes into the bottom of the mug and begins to spread out, stopping only at the edge of the translucent paper shielding my tea leaves. As water pours into the mug it instantly begins to turn a golden amber; the soft scent of the tea follows the wafting steam and finds my nose. It tingles a bit.
Back in my office, I gaze out the window and it has begun to snow again. The wind swirls around the edges of my building, picking up the snowflakes and sending them waltzing around the air before the find their way to the earth. Pipes creak and pop as they carry hot water around the house, almost echoing the percussion lines Max Roach is laying down behind Clifford Brown’s muted trumpet.
Moment of reflection over, it is time to read again. I may be looking down at book pages now, but the last few minutes will continue to linger in my senses for some time yet.
