The tea I made after the fall

I burned the first batch—oversteeped, bitter as regret. But the second? Just right: a pale gold, trembling in the cup like something almost alive. I’ve been doing this for years now, not because I need it, but because the silence between sips is the only space where I still feel whole. The injury never left. It just learned to live quietly in the joints. This tea isn’t healing. It’s a ritual. A way of saying: I’m still here, even if I can’t leap.