Sunday was my birthday. And for my 18th birthday, my celebration of the end of legal childhood and adolescence, I was gifted something very special by my parents. As I gently tore the rainbow wrapping paper off one side of the gift box, I stopped to gasp in excitement. The gift was nothing extravagant—no luxury brand name, no gilded edges or gemmed centers. However, it was personal, warmly thoughtful, and elegant on its own. My parents had given me a tea kettle.
This tea kettle is a special one. Its gooseneck spout eliminates splashes from my tea pour, and the electric base is simply designed so I can choose the exact temperature I please for my tea. No bells and whistles—just the gift of functionality. Later, as I tried the very special kettle, I was gifted something more: the gift of tea, of quiet warmth amid my chaotic day, and the gift of love that, just like the tea, is often overlooked yet still remains the warm and silent backbone to my life.
My parents’ love isn’t zealous. It’s trickled into me through every act they do while I’m not looking. It’s the times when my mom replaces my broken shoes without me asking. It’s when my dad spends entire days at my dance competition but still encourages me to sleep in the passenger seat as he drives another three hours home. It’s with every knock on my bedroom door, first at 10 p.m., then at 11 p.m., then finally again at 12 a.m., each with a smile that momentarily relieves the pain of infinite math homework.
The especially cherished memories of mine are ironically during said math homework when, in a fit of frustration and exhaustion, I consider giving up. But, recognizing my temporary grief, my mom and my dad offer an alternative to quitting: “Would you like some tea?” I’ve likely made hundreds of cups of tea for myself before, but the tea made by my parents in the late hours of night, when they really should be resting from their work days, is the best cup of all. These cups are a symbol of encouragement, of support even when they cannot solve my integral equations for me. As I drink the ambrosia of black tea, milk and honey, my heart is also nourished by the loving care behind it.
My tea was once made in a glass mug, heated to boiling temp in the microwave. Now, I have a special electric kettle to make it the exact temperature, without splashes or fuss. But, I’ll still remember the special feeling of a nighttime cup of tea, in my childhood and adolescence, splashed slightly onto the counter under my parents’ smiles.
