My mom has dementia, and every day is different. Some mornings, she doesn’t remember my name. Other times, she forgets where she put her glasses—even when they’re right on her nose. But there’s one thing that hasn’t slipped away: she still remembers how to make tea.
It starts with the kettle. She fills it just enough so it won’t whistle too loud, a habit from years of not wanting to wake anyone up early. The water boils while she gets out two cups—always two, even if I tell her I don’t want any today. She says it tastes better shared.
The tea bags come next. She knows exactly where they are in the cupboard, tucked behind the sugar bowl like a little secret waiting to be found. Sometimes she hums while she waits for the water to boil—a tune from when we were kids, something simple and sweet.
Pouring the water is careful work now; her hands shake a little more than they used to. But once those tea bags are in the cups and hot water swirls around them, something changes in her face—a kind of calm settles over her features.
She lets it steep just long enough before adding milk (never cream) and sugar (just a pinch). Stirring is slow but steady; you can see how much thought goes into each movement even though this routine must have played out thousands of times before dementia came along.
We sit together at our old kitchen table with chipped edges and memories soaked into its wood grain like spilled tea stains that never quite wash out completely no matter how hard you scrub at them later on down life’s road ahead…
And as we sip quietly side by side? For those few minutes? Everything feels normal again because making tea isn’t just about remembering steps or following recipes—it’s about holding onto pieces of yourself when so much else starts slipping through your fingers like steam rising off freshly poured Earl Grey leaves left steeping too long between heartbeats ticking away inside fragile minds trying their best not lose what matters most: love served warm in familiar mugs held close against chests full stories only half-remembered but never truly forgotten either…
