Invite Her in for Tea

She burst through the door, stomping her black boots. The too small foyer mat lying to her, beckoning her in.

“No, No, NO!” I say in my husky, morning voice, “You are not welcome here. Go, go go!” I shoo her with my hands, as if this will send her on the way.

I know it won’t.

She gapes at me, “What. What do you mean I’m not welcome.”

I know if I were to look up from my task, her stormy eyes, as black as midnight in a moonless sky, would betray the hurt my words have caused. I continue pulling tins from the cabinets, “I told you the last time. Don’t come back.”

The dipping water from her umbrella louder than her words, “B-But, you can’t. I mean, I—” She stammers, unsure of what to do, where to go.

Mornings are the hardest since my Evelyn passed. And I refuse to be reminded with her here, standing in a muddy puddle trailing along the linoleum floor.

“You’re making a mess. I thought I was clear the last time. And the time before that! And all the other times, you showed up at my door. What don’t you understand?” My voice grows, “I’m an old man. I can’t have you showing up like this. I need my peace! This is my home. I can’t have you just showing up out of nowhere, whenever you want, making a mess…” A crack opens, revealing the truth as my anger fizzles.

I finally lift my eyes fully from the sink, where I fill the pot with water. Tears threaten to fall, wanting to mirror the weather outside. It’s how I’ve felt for a long time now. But she has no right. I didn’t ask her to come. And now look! She’s making a mess of things again.

She stares at me darkly or what I can only assume is darkly because I can’t make out her face under the hood of her deep blue rain jacket. Thunder rumbles the shutters, and I feel she’s about to scold me as if I’m a child throwing a temper tantrum. I just don’t understand why she keeps showing up like this. At the most inconvenient times.

Her silence seeps into my ancient bones. The urge to fill the canyon I’ve created between us exposes itself in the shaking of my hands as I place the kettle on. Tick. Tick. Tick. The flames catch in the burner of the stove. Her stove.

The stove my Evelyn used every day for the past 56 years. The stove she used for our four children’s breakfasts before school. The lunches with her book club friends. For every holiday meal. And after the kids grew up and moved on, for every new stranger she invited in to eat dinner with us.

She was like that. My Evelyn. She never met a stranger, and she loved to cook. She would always say, “A full belly warms the heart and soothes the soul.”

“Roger.” The woman says softly. A little too soft.

“Don’t.” The slow rhythm of the rain outside loosens something. “Please?…Don’t.” I’m not sure if I’m asking or telling her. I can’t. Not today.

She lifts her hand to the edge of her hood.

Before she can tilt it back to show me her face, I cut her off, “Why…”

Pausing, she gently asks, “Why what, Roger?”

“Why today? Of all days. Why did you have to show up again…today?” There is no malice in my underused voice. It betrays me, with another boulder catching in my throat.

Without saying anything, she drops her hood. Long silky locks of jet black hair fall down around her face. She doesn’t take off her coat, nor does she take another step closer, though this is the closest she’s gotten to me. It’s been 364 days since she started showing up, unannounced. Uninvited.

And yet.

Here she is again.

I’m not sure what makes today any different.

“Roger,” she tentatively begins as if she can read my thoughts, “You don’t have to invite me in, but I will always come back. You know this.” Her voice is made of a sweet summer breeze on an extra hot day.

Evelyn loved all kinds of weather; she treated it like the universe’s mood ring. Each day just as the sun peaked over the horizon, she’d look outside not just to determine what she’d wear, but what remedy the day would call for.

If the sky’s were angry and yelling their insults, she would decide that the best form of action was to put a calming record on and bake a pie. Sweetness to soften the darkness.

If the day was overcast and cool, she might wear her favorite mauve blouse and make hardy chili. I smile, almost reaching out to touch the very real memory.

And on days like today…

The kettle blares, and I’m startled back into the kitchen. I shiver and her smiling face fades into a pretty purple haze, drifting back to its own time.

Jealousy slaps me. It’s not fair. Why should the past have her, when she belongs her with me. Here in her kitchen…with me.

“Are you ready, Roger?” She still hasn’t moved from her muddy puddle.

I pull two cups down from the place they hang. I choose them carefully.

“She…” I cleared my voice, waving my hands again to finally usher in the lady still standing in my doorway. I continue, unsteadily. Unsure of where to begin. “She would have said that today is the perfect day for some tea in our cozy kitchen nook. And she would have chosen the brightest cups.”

I show the woman the mugs as she shakes off her umbrella, coat, and shoes before she finds a spot at the table.

One is yellow and says, “Hello, Sunshine.” The other covered in sunflowers smiling.

I place the cups down in front of us and wander back to the counters for the tray full of delights. Just as my Evelyn would have done. Honey. Milk. Varies blends of teas. Sandwich cookies. Sugar cubes.

With the teapot and tray, I swallow my pride and move forward on path unfamiliar to me. With every step, my armor falls. Piece by piece: shin guards, helmet, until finally my breast plate lands with a clatter on the floor.

I sit. “She.” I falter, “She did things like that. It was her way of…I don’t know. Righting the universe. My Evelyn.” The black hole in my heart threatens to consume me, wishing it would pull me in.

She reaches across the table to rest her hand on top of mine.

The dam breaks and the flood gates open like the weather outside. A waterfall of tears cascade down my cheeks, and the woman never says a word. She simply waits for the waves to wash over me, again and again.

And when the currents settle, the waters calm, I look up. I pick up my teacup and sip, just as a small ray breaks through a gap in the cloud, highlighting the empty chair.

She’s gone.