Flowers of Time

This morning feels different as I lift my head from the pillow. I turn toward the window. The sky is thick with clouds, but golden and orange light cuts through the horizon, making everything glow. I glance at the digital clock.

6:14 a.m.

A lovely time for tea.

I step lightly from the bedroom and drift into the kitchen. The cedar tea box waits for me there. I lift it carefully and carry it to the small white dining table set for two. My thumb unlatches the lock, and I ease the lid open. Inside is an array of colors and textures (leaves, petals, stems) each one holding a different promise.

I run my fingers over the neatly arranged packets and stop on one wrapped in purple paper. There’s no name on it, only a small white flower. I take down a clear mug, fill it with hot water from the dispenser, and drop the bag inside. Steam rises. I close my eyes and lean closer.

The sweet, floral scent pulls me backward.

Green fields stretch beneath a wide sky. I’m six years old, chasing my best friend through the grass, inventing worlds as we run. Flowers speckle the neighborhood where I grow up. I take a sip.

“Come back home, Sweetie.”

I drink again.

“Your dinner’s getting cold.”

My eyes snap open. “Who said that?” The apartment is silent. Just me. I keep my eyes on the window as I finish the tea, my hands warming around the mug.

Outside, the sky remains vibrant despite the clouds. I hear birds but see none. Grass sways gently, and a faint sprinkle of rain drifts down. It’s breathtaking. I reach for another sip, then realize the cup is empty.

Time for another.

I trail my fingers along the packets again, letting intuition guide me. I stop at a deep gray bag decorated with both lush green leaves and brittle, shriveled ones.

“This could be anything,” I whisper.

I steep the bag, close my eyes, and inhale.

At first, it smells like orchids. Adolescence rushes in—the sting of my first heartbreak at a high school dance. I see my mother sitting up with me all night, brewing oolong, telling me her own story so I won’t feel alone.

The scent deepens. Grows older. Woodier.

Suddenly I’m at her bedside, making tea for her instead. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The laminate floor peels at the edges. Saline and alcohol hang in the air. I sip, my breath beginning to waver.

“I love you,” she says.

I drink again.

“It’s going to be okay.”

I gulp the tea despite the burn, ignoring the pain as it scalds my throat.

“We’ll see each other again,” she says. “I promise, Sweetie.”

The morning’s bliss drains away, replaced by sobs. I cry openly, grief shaking through me, until calm slowly returns.

When I glance at the clock again, my breath catches.

6:14 a.m.

I’ve been awake for hours. How can this be?

The thought lingers only a moment before my eyes drift back to the tea box. Maybe the answers are here. No... That’s ridiculous. Isn’t it?

Still, my hand moves.

I choose a red packet marked with a poppy and steep it. I close my eyes and breathe.

The taste is unbearably bitter. My face tightens before I can stop it. I see myself in my twenties; Hollowed out, sharp-edged, someone I don’t want to recognize. Regret comes fast and thick: broken promises, wasted chances, the look in my mother’s eyes when she sees how thin I’ve become.

I hesitate with the cup hovering at my lips. I already know what she’ll say.

Still, I drink.

The heat scorches its way down my throat.

“Sweetie,” she says, her voice breaking. “How could you do this?”

A cry tears loose from my chest. The mug slips from my hand and shatters somewhere behind me. I see her kneeling beside me after my first overdose, hands shaking. I see her a week later, gripping mine outside the rehab doors, pride fighting through fear.

She lifts me when I can’t stand on my own.

Slowly, the bitterness fades.

That’s when I notice it.

The mug sits on the table again, whole, filled with hot water. The tea packets I’ve used are back in place, untouched. I checked the clock.

6:14 a.m.

The apartment feels familiar, but I don’t remember living here. Outside, I see that it stands alone, perched above a never-ending field rolling down a hillside. Rain is pouring harder now, spilling from the clouds.

I lift a green packet from the box and steep it without checking the label. I don’t need to.

Peppermint.

I never like it. My mother always does.

There is no vision this time.

When I open my eyes, she sits across from me.

I slid the mug toward her without thinking. She smiles, wraps her hands around it, and takes a long sip.

“Thank you, Sweetie.”

My throat tightens. She looks better than I remember; Soft skin, bright eyes, no trace of pain. Just her.

“Mom?”

She hums quietly and meets my gaze. “Yes?”

“You can’t be here,” I whisper. “You died.”

She doesn’t argue. She only watches me, calm and patient, as if waiting for me to understand. The clock beside us still reads at 6:14 a.m.

I look down. Another cup of hot water is waiting in front of me.

“Why don’t you make yourself a cup?” She asks gently.

Understanding settles over me. Not sudden, not sharp, but warm. Like the first sip of something familiar.

I reach for an orange packet, then stop. I look out the window instead. Rain scatters light as it falls, the fields beyond endless and gold.

I took her hand.

“I think I’m done with tea,” I say. “Could we go outside?”

She brushes her fingers through my hair, the way she used to.

“Are you sure?” She asks softly. “We can’t come back in.”

I look once more at the table, the box, and the clock that never moves. Then I turn toward the door.

“Yes, Mom,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I’m ready.”