The tea I made after the fall

I burned the first cup—just a flicker of flame in the kettle, then gone. The second was too hot, scalded my tongue like a memory. The third I let cool for twenty minutes, not because I wanted it mild, but because I needed to watch it breathe. It’s funny how something so small can feel like a ritual. I don’t dance anymore, but I still move with the same kind of care—slow, deliberate, like the air before thunder.