Morning Rituals Bibek Adhikari Four of us sit silently, almost comfortably around a varnished table, sipping tea— an unknown herbal kind, the one mom bought from the nearby Ayurvedic shop— sipping slowly, cupping our hands around the ceramic cups, gauzing the warmth inside. I dream of parijat flowers, pastel white falling throughout this morning. Perhaps I am wrong about the fall. I dream of heartbroken flowers, falling from different heights—the same Patricia saw some forty years ago. In this melancholy house, I am one of those flowers, falling off the teapot into the cup.
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