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| The Cup of Tea by Andre Derain |
I believe life is worth living—although once I considered overdosing, not because I wanted to die, but because I was in such pain—would the scorching of my heart ever end, would it ever, ever end?—that I just wanted to stop feeling, but the thought of my children prevented me from opening the cabinet and uncapping those orange plastic bottles, and I resigned myself to the black flames that were engulfing me because I realized that I could endure anything for them—on the other hand, the thought of suicide has consoled me periodically—once while I was swamped with love for my own husband, I was throttled by a terrible fear—how could I live without him?—and then I suddenly realized that I didn’t have to live without him, that I had a choice, and I felt a great sense of relief; but all in all, I’m a very curious person, and I think that’s what will always keep me going: how will the book or movie end, what will happen to me tomorrow, who will I love next, and if I do ever write another story—of course, I will, won’t I?—what will it be, and that woman sitting next to me, why does she always carry a glass jar of tea with her wherever she goes, and what kind of tea is in it, and what does it taste like (she tells me that her jar of tea is the thing she loves most in the world, that she even took it with her when she went to Israel, and she doesn’t know what she loves more, the tea or the jar, and then she lets me hold the jar—it really does feel lovely, the heat from the tea radiating out through the smooth, curved glass into my hands—and she pours a little of the tea—branch tea—into my cup, so I get to taste the intense earthiness of it, and I tell her that I am fascinated by her fascination with her tea jar) and isn’t that enough?
by Nina Zolotow
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