Lunchtime Nostalgia

I love the smell when I open a tea bag -- it doesn't matter what kind of tea it is. Even in this humid, 115-degree weather. But really, tea and cold weather just absolutely go one-with-the-other. Standing in front of a pane of windows frosted over, feet in a pair of thick socks, hair in a pony tail, gazing out at the stars and both hands cupped around a steaming cup of Lemon Lift or Earl Grey or white jasmine or apple-cider tea. such an incredible feeling of being in a coccoon amid a chill. At night is beautiful enough, but I love doing the same thing on a winter morning. At Grandpa Andy's farm, I always stood by the window over the kitchen sink because I could see the short stalks left from the corn jutting up through the snow, & the vast stretch of the fields, the bare black trunks & arms of the trees on the wind breaks, the railroad tracks, the cattle all huddled in the corrals. It was like seeing that whole world in a snapshot. Grandpa always came to fill his coffee cup, in his old green parka, and he'd stand beside me and put his hand on my shoulder. He seemed to understand my holding still, and taking it all in, because he never rushed me. He also used to point things out to me, little vignettes -- pheasant crossing the road, a windmill turning, a mother cow & her calf standing at a salt lick.

Everything is making me cry. EVERYTHING. Not hard, and not for long, but lots of fast tears. Odd.