I stand at the sink, staring at the weeping tap.

I register my raw eyes, mustn’t haven’t blinked in a while. I’m miles away today.

Auto pilot is on, one hand mechanically rotating the plates,

My energy abates as the other listlessly sponges off the residual gravy.

I made it just the way you like it.

My throat has a dry feel, I think I’m due a cup of tea.

I peel off the marigolds; once bright sunshine yellow, now faded.

Over the last forty years the floral design on our wedding china has degraded,

But I still remember how vivid the colour was in the beginning.

I take out two cups.

Two teabags – Sri Lankan Ceylon – thrown into the silver teapot.

Two plates, a knife to cut the jam-smeared fruit scone we will share.

Two teacups, a pair, the sweet pea pattern complete when they’re side by side,

Two halves of one perfect picture I’ve looked at for years.

Then auto pilot is disabled abruptly, tears begin to creep from my raw eyes.

I realise.

It’s just tea for one.

You are gone.

By Jordanne Kennaugh