I'm not able to sing right now, so I'm writing. I haven't had my breakfast yet, other than hot black tea, which she taught me to love when we ran out of milk a couple of times. It felt like such a grown up drink at age five, and I felt that she honored my growing maturity by presenting it to me.
Now, I drink black tea every day, and green tea most days. I've been unable to eat much, just fruit and nuts and miso. I used to fast for a couple of days every now and then, but since becoming ill I've not been able to do that, until now. It's a mystery.
My mom loved sweets. Her iced tea was thick with sugar, just the way it is made wherever sugar cane grows. When sugar was rationed during WWII, her step-father, my Granddaddy, was able to get Snickers somehow. Back then they were thick as gold bricks to hear her tell it.
I want to pour old time Snickers at her feet. I want to see my Granddaddy walking up to present them to her. I want to see the look of innocent delight on her gorgeous face when she bites into one, standing there barefoot in the grey sand in her rolled up dungarees, with her upturned nose and hair like a cloud.
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