Hot Tea

RemembranceHot teaGrandmothersLoveFamily

Aug 31

In reading this poem about a little boy in the plains of central Syria learning from his grandmother how to stir his tea, I was immediately taken back to my own grandparents’ home in the Appalachian foothills of East Tennessee. Like Al-Jundi’s grandmother, Grandma and Grandpa taught my siblings and me how to stir.

Since we lived in the same town as my grandparents, my two sisters, my brother, and I spent a lot of time with them when we were kids. We all have many fond memories from those days. One of my very fondest is sitting on Grandma or Grandpa’s lap, sometimes two at a time, learning how stir. Instead of hot tea, our little bowls were filled with cold ice cream—usually butter pecan, black sweet cherry, or vanilla. As we snuggled in close, they would show us how to move our spoons around just enough to make it extra creamy without causing it to melt.

Carrying on the proud Smith family tradition, I still eat ice cream nearly every day, and I still stir it just so. Often when I do, I think back to those times on my grandparents’ laps and, like Al-Jundi, lose myself in the mesmerizing memories of being safe, loved, and cared for.

Hot Tea

by Lahab Assef Al-Jundi

Many years ago
my grandmother showed me
how to stir the sugar in my glass of hot tea.
She held the small spoon in her fingers as if it were a feather,
lowered it until it rested on the bottom
then gently moved it from side to side.
Sugar swirled like a hazy cloud in amber sky,
then slowly faded away.
I had been spinning the spoon round and round
turning the hot liquid into a whirl,
spilling some of it over the rim.
Why is it every time I scoop a spoonful of sugar
to put in my tea
I go back to that sunny morning in Salamiyeh
sitting on colorful rugs under the big pine trees
in my grandparents’ backyard?
I start to move the spoon in circles
then change,
side to side,
and momentarily get lost
in the turbulent sweet cloud
inside…