It is mediocre black tea, obvious and sweet, and I’ve long since grown out of it. I doubt Mom has been prouder than when I was eight years old, addicted to caffeine from my morning mug of Constant Comment. My mother gave me tea, my dad gave me Van Morrison, and if those were their only legacies they could still feel satisfied punching out and calling it a life. Were it ever to rain, I would be drinking tea, listening to Astral Weeks, changing my socks. When it’s raining, I’m driving on treadless tires, admiring the view from behind ineffective windshield wipers. If it’s raining, I’m in my attic, where the impotent drizzle outside is amplified into an orchestral sonic flogging, like BBs fired at a denim pup tent.
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