By Angie
Have a cup of tea,’ she’d say. The British magic bullet.
Drown any sorrow with a good cuppa. Mend heartache. Cure
sickness. Solve World Wars with a strong brew and a dunky
biscuit.
My Mum; tea advocate. Averaging ten cups a day. Favourite cup.
Favourite brand.
Childhood memories of small cups of sweet milky tea. Bathtubs
full brewed over a lifetime to share with family, friends,
acquaintances, old and new. And me.
And then she died.
We placed Yorkshire tea bags on her coffin instead of flowers.
She’d have loved that.
A cuppa didn’t help that day.
I drink coffee now
(101 word flash fiction)
Dedicated to my mum, Patricia Jefferson
This poem was generously shared with Go With Grace, as part of Dying Matters Week 2024. Thank you so much for sharing your beautiful words.
