Teatime with Aynsley

In a cottage, deep in the woods, Aynsley the teacup remained where they last put her. In fact, it was where they always put her; the uppermost shelf in the heart of the Gibson’s kitchen. Aynsley was a fragile little thing. She could not hang from a hook like the other teacups could. Her companions were the mugs collected from Mr. Gibson’s traveling days. The mugs were not so bad. However, there were times she felt a bit out of place.

They had no paintings of vines and flowers. They were decorated with words that made Mr. Gibson laugh and names that made him proud. He looked at them much like Mrs. Gibson looked at her. Aynsley didn’t know why– she could not read. She often wondered what they said. Perhaps the words painted a picture worth admiring. She supposed they were beautiful in their own right if that were the case.

 Aynsley had no other complaints. She was quite happy with this spot. This shelf faced the windows looking out towards the east. From here, she could see the sun give the wood floors their good-morning kiss as it stretched between the trees and through the glass. In those moments, her spot felt more like a throne befit for a princess than a shelf that housed a teacup.

 Years of use weakened Aynsley’s handle and chipped away at her edges. Mr. Gibson cradled her as he glued pieces back together– his brows were tight-knit; his glasses rested on the tip of his nose. You see, Mr. Gibson was a tinkerer and tinkerers can’t help but tinker. They grow bored too quickly and become troublesome if left alone for long hours. Mrs. Gibson, on the other hand, was not a tinkerer; she was an observer. She liked to lean over Mr. Gibson’s shoulder and watch as he worked. Mrs. Gibson often had things worth fixing. Aynsley liked to believe it was because it gave them time together, and it very much could have been– but then there were times that she wondered if it was because of Mrs. Gibson’s lack of tinkering knowledge and skill. It didn’t matter, of course. There was no need for her to know, she had a Mr. Gibson. He knew.

His hands were cold, or what Aynsley thought must have been cold because she felt no warmth, and what is cold but the absence of heat? Still, she was grateful for the care. There was no better home than that of the Gibson home. Once the glue set, Aynsley wondered what kinds of teas they would share. Jasmine? Mint? Chamomile? Chamomile was Mrs. Gibson’s favorite. She drank it nearly every morning and night. Aynsley couldn’t contain her excitement when they meandered into the kitchen the next morning.

Mr. Gibson was no longer young and spry like he had been during his early years. He was a stout man with hunched shoulders and receding white hair. He walked with a limp but refused the help of a cane. Stubborn old man, Mrs. Gibson would say. Mr. Gibson must have agreed because he never disagreed. He’d sip on his tea with an occasional grunt or snicker as he listened to her tell tale after tale. Aynsley noticed many years ago that mornings were not so kind to his vocabulary. It wasn’t until noon that his words would wake from their slumber. Mrs. Gibson never seemed to mind, and Mr. Gibson tried his best to be pleasant company. It was not good, but it was enough.

 Mrs. Gibson would sit across from him each morning with that soft smile of hers, and he would stare at her like she was heaven’s treasure misplaced on earth. Aynsley would not have been surprised if she was. Mrs. Gibson’s eyes brought the beauty of the earth inside the cottage, and when the sun broke through the windows just right, they would come alive with all kinds of greens and browns. They looked less like the eyes of a human and more like the soul of a garden. Her voice– Aynsley had never met someone with such a gentle voice– matched the songs of spring’s red-breasted robins.

When the whistle of the kettle called, Mr. Gibson listened to Mrs. Gibson hum– she liked to hum– and left the table to grab two teacups. This was the moment that Aynsley had been waiting for. She watched Mr. Gibson’s hand reach for her handle and grew sad when he pulled the glass mug beside her off the shelf. She wanted to call out to him, but she had no voice. She wanted to jump from the ledge, but she had no legs to walk and the ground was far from her; she feared she would shatter.

Steam from the kettle rolled upwards. Mrs. Gibson was looking out the window towards the rose bush they had planted. Surely she would speak up if she were to notice such a heinous act. Aynsley was weathered and worn but she hadn’t yet spilled a single drop of tea. A knock on the door pulled Mr. Gibson away from the stove. The longer she remained planted, the more aware Aynsley became of her faded paint and fractured sides. Perhaps that was why Mr. Gibson had chosen another. She no longer had the beauty that he felt Mrs. Gibson deserved to see.

The shelves began to shake causing the glass to rattle. Was it a storm? Aynsley didn’t think so. The sky was not dark and the trees seemed unbothered. Mr. Gibson returned with a broad smile. It was a strange sight at such an early hour of the day. Behind him, a little girl came bounding through the door. The curls in her hair bounced, framing her excited face and adding to the energy that spilled from her eyes. Mrs. Gibson turned to her and scooped her into her arms. Aynsley could not recall ever seeing this girl before. However, the Gibson’s appeared to know her well.

Two more people entered the room, a woman and a tall man– her hand woven together with his. Aynsley felt a bit of relief. It was the Gibson's daughter. Which meant that the little girl was Brooklyn. My, how she has grown. Aynsley thought. Brooklyn was much like Mrs. Gibson. They both laughed the same laugh, smiled the same smile, and had the same deep love for all things nature.

Mrs. Gibson pointed out the window to where a bird sat perched on the sill. The room grew quiet, and Brooklyn hunkered down into Mrs. Gibson’s arms. She watched the bird hop from the ledge to the tip of a tree’s limb. The heat of the oven woke Aynsley from her stupor. Mr. Gibson pulled out freshly baked biscuits and laid the tray next to the kettle.

Traitor.

Aynsley stared down at the pot of boiled water. She would have sighed if she had the lungs to do so. It was unfair for her to think such things, and of no fault to the kettle that she was not chosen that morning. It was only doing what was asked of it. But she was chosen every morning. Why must this one be any different? The crack in her handle couldn’t have been that bad, could it? The glue should have set by now. She loved listening to their stories and the laughter that often came with visits around the table. But Aynsley could not hear them from this distance and so she welcomed the shadows that hid her sorrow.

Brooklyn leaned against Mrs. Gibson and played with the necklace around her grandmother’s neck. Mrs. Gibson sang to the little girl. The room grew still as the others quieted so they could hear the calming tune. Mr. Gibson opened one of the windows. The air was crisp, as most spring mornings were, and the cool breeze reminded Aynsley that there was no tea inside her cup to keep her warm. When the song was sung, Mrs. Gibson kissed Brooklyn’s head and must have said something exciting, because Brooklyn's eyes widened and her hands clapped together as she swung her legs.

Mrs. Gibson pointed towards the shelf where Aynsley sat. Mr. Gibson nodded and pushed himself up from his chair– the table keeping his balance steady. He turned and shuffled over to Aynsley. When he lifted her from her place, he ran his finger over the painting she had recently grown weary of and then smiled.

“Now then,” Mrs. Gibson took Aynsley from Mr. Gibson and held her out so that all could see. Aynsley felt so small– so exposed and sheepish. “Do you see this teacup?” Mrs. Gibson said.

Brooklyn nodded.

“It was a gift given to me by my grandmother. Each time I drink from this cup I feel close to her.”

“It’s pretty,” Brooklyn replied.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Gibson was careful not to carry Aynsley by the handle. She turned her around, pointing at all the scuffs and faded colors. Aynsley felt a wave of shame. This was what a teacup should never look like, she waited for those words to enter the room. They never did.

“Each crack is a memory, you see?” Mrs. Gibson said instead. “This one,” she giggled, “your Grandpa missed the edge of the table when I told him that I was pregnant with your mother. And this one,” she pointed, “this one was created the day my grandmother told me she was mine.”

Brooklyn ran her fingers over the uneven edges.

“Teatime is more than just fine dining and pretty dresses. It’s about making memories with the people you love; having the hard talks alongside the exciting ones.”

Mrs. Gibson set Aynsley down and waved Mr. Gibson over with the kettle. She draped a tea bag into the belly of Aynsley’s cup and poured the water till it reached the very top. Aynsley settled into the warmth of the steeping tea and continued to listen to Mrs. Gibson speak.

“This cup will keep your secrets and cherish your words. Her faded paint is a reflection of all the hands that held her. No matter the distance, she will keep yours close to mine.”

Brooklyn gasped. “You’re letting me keep her?”

“There is no one better.” Mrs. Gibson smiled and shoved Aynsley’s full cup toward Brooklyn.

The little girl did not reach for Aynsley, not at first. Rather, she wrapped her arms around Mrs. Gibson and kissed her wrinkled, tear-stained cheek. Aynsley had never felt more needed, more loved, than she did in that moment. Brooklyn took her first sip and smiled.

“Chamomile? Mama makes chamomile at home.”

“That’s because it is the finest tea there is.”

“That is debatable,” Mr. Gibson chimed.

Brooklyn giggled and looked at her mother with a contagious, toothy grin. Each sip was like a hug to Aynsley. It was a reminder that she was not yet done with this life– that her surface may be broken, her purpose ever-changing, but she was still needed; still wanted. Aynsley felt more alive now than ever.

 Brooklyn promised to keep Aynsley close– to soak in the steam of the tea and let her words, her tears, her thoughts, fill the lines that covered Aynsley’s brittle cup. She promised to hold tight to the faded paint that was redefined as a mark of distant fingers. When it came time for them to leave, Brooklyn cried.

Aynsley felt the drops of the little girl’s tears and knew that this was goodbye. She hated goodbyes just as much as she hated cold tea. Cold tea meant that she had been forgotten and goodbyes meant that conversations were over. Brooklyn wiped her running nose and held tight to Aynsley. But Mrs. Gibson did not say goodbye. Aynsley should have known better than to assume such things. Words like that did not belong in a home like this.

Mrs. Gibson hugged Brooklyn and whispered into her ear, “May this little cup help shorten the distance. I love you now and for always, my dearest granddaughter.”