The boiling water would scorch the tea leaves on first contact, together they’d clash like a swirling whirlpool, fighting and battling till the water bled brown. The leaves would be scooped away and discarded, the water had won. But the leaves were not forgotten, the water was choking on the leaves’ remains. The tea leaves had won. The aftermath of sweetness would be sent to calm the dispute; the sugar would drop in and disappear. But it’s trace left behind as a sweet after taste. Finally the light at the end of the tunnel, the glorious cooling milk would purge the tea of all its defects, sweet and warm, the tea was finally ready. Mother would use her Disney mug, and I my Shakespeare mug, hers would bare the silhouette of a poisonous red apple and mine the eerie ghost of a dead king. Nonetheless our drink would be the same, tea was relaxing time, tea was home time, tea was comfort on an old cream sofa slaughtered with cat claws, and a florescent table where the paint was chipped off. Tea was mother daughter time, and was never finished till the last drop was drunk.