Natural Remedy

His herbal tea doesn’t work.

He drove to the grocery store at 10 p.m. on a week night to buy a box of that tea for me. Because I’ve had a fit again. The tea is called “Stress Free” or something. I hate him for trying. I hate him for bringing me into this world.

The tea tastes like licorice and pencil shavings, so he stirs in a heaping tablespoon of white sugar. I watch him from the couch as he shuffles around in the kitchen, boiling water and clanging dishes together. He wants me to go to sleep and to wake up in the morning, whole and clothed and in my right mind. It’s not going to happen, and I tell him this. He carries on stirring and sopping the teabag around. He only hears my tearful babbling. To him, I am much like a baby.

He is still tall and so stubborn, but when his back is turned towards me, I watch his shoulders and it’s there I see his age. Because he has carried the weight of my unthankfulness for so long, I tell myself. Because he bears his children’s burdens and his own. It’s not true, though. He looks old because he’s getting old.

In his stocking feet, he brings me the horrible, bitter, piping hot tea. My stomach turns. He is often very wrong. Sometimes, I blame him for whatever is deeply wrong inside my heart, within the hollow of my chest. But he holds the scalding mug out to me, and he holds it steady, and it’s pungent and it’s a gimmick, but it’s sugary sweet. And I know that this man would not knowingly hurt me. And somehow, I’m sure that he’s kind.

“It never works,” I sigh. I pull my blanket around me and shut my eyes tight. “Drink it,” he says, setting the mug on a coaster, turning out the light and leaving me be in the comfortable, easy darkness.