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indiana_jThe mug is rough against her hands; the formerly vibrant blue has faded into a softer, quieter color from years of use, years of being cradled in palms almost as rough as the mug itself. Callouses formed from a life time of hard work have worn the color down. She finds she rather likes this newer color. She's outgrown the garish colors of youth and this older color suits her now.
It is in that state of being almost too hot to hold but it feels good in that painful sort of way. The tea warms the mug up and, in turn, it leaches into her hands as she leans against the window. The sun's been struggling to rise even as she stomped around the farm - move, move, keep moving, ignore the cold that eats at the strength in old limbs and creaking bones - to do morning chores. Still smelling of horses, she pauses to watch life slowly blossom across the farm, as she savors her morning brew.
Hands that have been weathered by time and sun bring the mug to her mouth but she doesn't drink yet. She breathes deeply as her eyelids dip slightly and she ignores that rattle in her chest. Tendrils of steam rise like ghosts under her mouth and nose, fogging up her glasses but she doesn't mind. She's not really looking at anything, anyway. Scents swirl against her senses as she breathes in deep, sharpening her sense of smell even as her mouth waters in anticipation.
The cold falls out of her skin and bones like ice thawing from a tree, leaving behind a tingling warmth that spreads sluggishly up from her hands. The woman tugs the mug closer to her chest as she seeks out more of that warmth - the farm house takes forever to warm up and the kitchen feels like a freezer.
Finally she raises it to her lips and takes a cautious, careful sip. It scalds enough to bring tears to her eyes but she simply blinks and swallows. This is a pain she's grown accustomed to. In her throat the tea has transformed itself from liquid to a burning lump of coal. She can feel it slide down her back and it scorches as it falls, burning a path from tongue to gullet. There it sits and she shivers as it unfurls in her stomach, stretching and expanding.
Perhaps, she thinks as she takes another sip, she will take a thermos of tea out with her to visit her husband's grave. Sit in the watery sunlight of winter with a belly full of liquid fire; she'll tell him how the farm is going. Maybe she'll complain about the children, maybe she'll cry a little and wonder when she'll finally be able to join him.
She taps the mug with hands that look older than she is and finally turns away from the window.
Or maybe she will simply sit in the kitchen that will never get truly warm again and quietly drink her tea before starting her rounds again.
It is a decision she'll make once she's done, she decides, breathing in deeply once more and lets the steam play against her cold pinched cheeks.
It is in that state of being almost too hot to hold but it feels good in that painful sort of way. The tea warms the mug up and, in turn, it leaches into her hands as she leans against the window. The sun's been struggling to rise even as she stomped around the farm - move, move, keep moving, ignore the cold that eats at the strength in old limbs and creaking bones - to do morning chores. Still smelling of horses, she pauses to watch life slowly blossom across the farm, as she savors her morning brew.
Hands that have been weathered by time and sun bring the mug to her mouth but she doesn't drink yet. She breathes deeply as her eyelids dip slightly and she ignores that rattle in her chest. Tendrils of steam rise like ghosts under her mouth and nose, fogging up her glasses but she doesn't mind. She's not really looking at anything, anyway. Scents swirl against her senses as she breathes in deep, sharpening her sense of smell even as her mouth waters in anticipation.
The cold falls out of her skin and bones like ice thawing from a tree, leaving behind a tingling warmth that spreads sluggishly up from her hands. The woman tugs the mug closer to her chest as she seeks out more of that warmth - the farm house takes forever to warm up and the kitchen feels like a freezer.
Finally she raises it to her lips and takes a cautious, careful sip. It scalds enough to bring tears to her eyes but she simply blinks and swallows. This is a pain she's grown accustomed to. In her throat the tea has transformed itself from liquid to a burning lump of coal. She can feel it slide down her back and it scorches as it falls, burning a path from tongue to gullet. There it sits and she shivers as it unfurls in her stomach, stretching and expanding.
Perhaps, she thinks as she takes another sip, she will take a thermos of tea out with her to visit her husband's grave. Sit in the watery sunlight of winter with a belly full of liquid fire; she'll tell him how the farm is going. Maybe she'll complain about the children, maybe she'll cry a little and wonder when she'll finally be able to join him.
She taps the mug with hands that look older than she is and finally turns away from the window.
Or maybe she will simply sit in the kitchen that will never get truly warm again and quietly drink her tea before starting her rounds again.
It is a decision she'll make once she's done, she decides, breathing in deeply once more and lets the steam play against her cold pinched cheeks.
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Date: 2009-02-07 10:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-08 04:38 am (UTC)And yeah, lots of tea watching and drinking. Mmm.