steeping
i think i am still searching for you
in little ways—
in the tea i grabbed at the store,
the kind your mom kept.
it takes me back
to her kitchen table.
she would talk to me
about the war,
you’d grimace.
i’d sift the bag,
caught between mother and son,
the warm drink in my hands
rooting me there.

o.t.

2026-01-01T16:15:37Z
txto