a letter to Claire

I’ve come home, after voting, and it’s quiet because Ben is away. I sit down to get through a few duties, but before I do, I make myself an herbal tea. I think of you. Rosehip and Hibiscus Flowers. I remember that night, two years ago when you stayed over, when the rain came pouring down and Jerem was upset because you were away and hadn’t called. During one of those days I came home and you had had a tea. “Very good tea,” you commented. I never much liked the Rosehip and Hibiscus Flowers. I don’t even know why it’s part of my collection. Yet I’ve drank it over the past two years, and today I stir in some almost-solidified honey and think that it’s my second to last bag of it, and I think of you. Of the look on your face when you came in to find a mohawked girl at the dinner table. “C’est qui?” you enquired in a small voice. And at the clips you wore in your hair that summer, clipping them on the door handle of the van you toured America in. My hair is long now and I’ve bought clips like yours. Finally long enough to fit into them. I’ve finally developed roles of film that had been laying around. There’s a photo of both of you. It’s a very good one. I’ve poured my tea in a large cup my mother had once given me. Part of a set. These cups that come with a saucer each because they’re to drink cafés au lait. I’ve never liked them, but I’ve learned to use them over the years, not seeing them much anymore apart for the shape of them. Like so many things I have, I use simply because they are mine. This tea tastes better with honey in it; it tastes like honey. Maybe I’ll see you again some day. And maybe I won’t have shaved my head off by then.