I always made her tea. Earl Grey, but not
too hot. Dunked thirty-two times, but quickly,
counting one one-thousand, two one-thousand.
In the large Redwood mug (the outside brown
as tree bark, the inside robin’s-egg blue).
Two heaping spoons of sugar. With cold milk.
She was always so tired when she came home,
she went straight to bed, laying on her side
with a book, a cup of tea, and then napped.
I must have watched her sleep a thousand times.
Now I wonder if that is what my son
will remember about me, decades on.