Tea time

It was early Monday morning of august long weekend. Parked on the street in front of my Auntie Ann's home, I stumbled out of my camper van.

She, 85 years young, fiddles with the flower pot on the east side of her home. I had never seen her like this before. 

She looked lost within herself. Hurting...

barely moving.

She had yet to notice me. 

Her head was downcast in her vulnerable lonesomeness.

"I was just feeling sorry for myself" she explained a few minutes later, as we sat in her kitchen for a cup of tea. She had just had a busy weekend visiting her daughter from the city. 

Oh, how she loves her children.

Tea with Aunty is quiet. I tell her about my travels and show her pictures. I don't 

really like to talk about myself too much but Aunty is a generous, soft-spoken soul 

so the pace of the conversation is slow.

Aunty surprises me.

"I don't always know what to talk to you young men about," she says. "There is only so much I can think to discuss."

I never knew she worried about such things. I suppose it makes sense. She's spent her life in the kitchen,

serving the men and the children.

We love her not for her words but for her heart.

Maybe, from now on I'll talk more, so she doesn't have a chance to worry.