The Last Cup of Chai Tea

This morning, while sheets of rain fell and the world rested in a still silence, I made a cup of chai tea. It was the last perfectly wrapped bag of leaves and spices from that box. The tea had expired months ago, but I still held on, wondering if I’d eventually crave it - if I’d risk burning myself because I wouldn’t have the patience, or if the scent would become overwhelming and I’d get lost in the complexity. 

So this morning, rather than the green tea or Earl Grey or even the other chai, my hands found their way to that white and pale yellow box that I’d been saving. As the water began to boil, I gently, cautiously, opened the small sealed bag. I draped the aromatic sachet over my favorite tea cup and slowly poured the steaming water from the kettle, knowing it would be the last time I’d experience the fragrance and taste from that distinct batch of herbs. I savored the minutes, the finality giving me more patience than I’d had before. I sat quietly at the table, cupping the ceramic mug with both hands. I took a sip and explored every last note as the hot liquid swirled across my tongue and warmed my throat. 

Outside, the rain grew heavier and the visibility decreased. I watched as it became more and more difficult to tell where the rain ended and the earth started. I turned my focus back to the tea. Rather than being as bold as I remembered, it was different, more comforting than complex. I thought of all the other windows and glass doors I’d looked out of as I drank from that same box of tea. It would have been easier to have thrown it away when it expired, one less thing to carry around; and it would have been just as easy to hold on to, keeping it within reach. But this morning, it was time. I took the last sip, walked to the sink, rinsed the stained mug, and said goodbye to the last of the chai tea.