This morning I tidy up from last night’s tea party. I wash the tea pot and the small creamers which are too delicate for the dish washer, wipe the crumbs on the dining room table, leave the cushions on the living room floor to remind me of the circle here last night of people who came together to be together, memory of those we’ve lost in the room in my china cabinet and in the mother who needed to sit down.

It was a fine evening in my home, a place I’ve shared these last twenty some years with many. My favorite gatherings have often included tea in china cups.

This morning I remember my grandmother saying she drank tea out of fancy cups because for so many years she worked so hard she didn’t have time for a cup of tea.

This morning I make tea and sit at the table to eat my granola before heading downstairs, a rare day I don’t eat on the run, in honor of my grandmother and myself.

On Monday I return to poetry class, third one for me, and this time I am eager. Last group was in our teacher’s living room, another circle of people gathering with intention to learn and to remember. The last week and a half I’ve thought of my teacher’s question, what do I wish to gain from turning my words to poems, rather than prose? I still don’t know, but the images have been gathering like clouds in my head, and I’m hoping somehow this weekend to turn a few into a poem.

Drip, drop, the rain outside keeps falling. The kids and Anne and I will have another day of raincoats at the park. Wish us well on this cool April morning. It’s been a week of sick kids and parents, last night Liana fell, and I’m hoping I’m not next.

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