The chill of the overpriced concrete floor seeps into my bones as I sit cross-legged, cradling a warm mug of guava leaf tea between my hands.
Steam curls upwards, enveloping my face in a gentle embrace, while I focus on the earthy scent that swirls in the air, a small comfort against the dull ache of illness.
In the background, Angela’s voice rises and falls—a familiar melody of complaints. Each word drips with the weight of her sadness, an invisible burden that feels heavier this morning.
Angela believe she have di most problem dem in di world
I catch snippets of her frustrations, her tone tinged with an edge of desperation.
I wonder how is she not aware of he blessings
It gnaws at me, threatening to sap my resolve.
I can’t help but wonder: are there happy mothers somewhere, living in laughter and light?
Is there a happy mother colony I can send her to?
The thought flickers like a candle in the dark, a fleeting spark in the midst of her sorrow.
I draw a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to keep my heart steady as her lament fills the space around us.
Jehovah come
But amidst the turmoil, she took the initiative. The aroma of breakfast wafts through the air—scrambled eggs, toasty bread, and something sweet, perhaps a hint of cinnamon.
I can see her moving around the kitchen, and though her hands shake slightly, she prepares each dish with care.
She even offered me a cup of tea, a quiet gesture of love that feels like a lifeline.
With every complaint, I feel my own energy wane, like a balloon losing air.
So I turn inward, focusing on the warm liquid in my cup, letting its gentle warmth radiate through me.
I take another sip, the taste a reminder that I’m here, grounded, while the world swirls in chaos around me.
Ignoring her, I allow the tea to wash over me, finding solace in its calming embrace, hoping it might shield me from the echoes of her pain.
