So, the tea...

 Love is stored in the cups of tea my mother brings me whenever she brews a pot.

She knows how I like it: dark, red, and sweet. And somehow, she always manages to get it right. Tea never tastes the same anywhere else, even when I brew it carefully, making sure to follow the steps she taught me, it’s either too light or too dark, too sweet or too bitter.

Maybe she knows a secret that she doesn’t let on.

So I watch her make the tea, time and time again, waiting for her to do the extra step that she never taught me. I look away when she notices me staring, occupying myself with setting the tray. I watch her reflection on the glass, she’ll sneak her step when I'm not looking.  But she never does, my mother makes her tea the same way I do, pours my cup first, pours hers, and waits for me to take it.

She kisses the top of my head as I pass, telling me to be careful. Apparently she’s keeping track of all the times I spilled my cups or dropped them near the table instead of placing them on top of it. I take a sip, almost tripping on the carpet, the tea is perfect.

Days later, my friend asks me if I know if love exists.

If it does, then where is it? She asks me as she sets a tray.

I lie, telling her I don’t know if it exists or where to find it. But maybe she shouldn't be looking so hard for it, to let it come naturally to her. But I know that the answer is simpler than that, love exists but not in the way she wants it to exist.

If I told her that it resides in my mother’s hands, because her tea always tastes like love, then she’ll laugh at me and shake her head, insisting that this isn't the time for my lame jokes.

So we chat and laugh, this friend and I. She pushes a teacup towards me, I accept it and take a sip. We fall back into our old conversation, time flies, and when I stand up to leave, I notice my abandoned cup, the tea was too sweet.