My Father's Tea

I had seen some strange things in my life, but I had never experienced anything like that of the night in the barn.

I grew up in a rural area, surrounded by fields of corn, not a tree nor flower in sight. My hometown was small, but I had only lived there for a short time before my father moved us to the ranch. He’d always dreamed of a simple life--farming, fishing, hunting--but growing up poor himself, he never imagined it was possible. After my mother had passed away the previous year, he had a difficult time staying in the town, working at his old job like nothing had changed.

I saw him grow more and more distant, staying in his office with the door locked, only coming out to brew his tea. My father had a strange attachment to that tea; when he was feeling down, he would brew himself a large cup and retreat back into his office. He never let me try it, something I didn't really think anything of at the time.

It seemed to calm him down. He had taken an interest in art, to the point that his office was covered in abstract patterns, seeming to move on their own. He began a routine of returning from work, brewing his tea, and spending hours poring over his paints and canvas. As a child, I didn’t understand why he didn’t want to spend time with me or share his interests. Now I know.

When we moved to the ranch, I was ecstatic. I had never liked my school, or the people who lived in my town. They all seemed so content, staring into space or laying on the grass, watching the clouds. I never understood it. Hadn’t they ever dreamed of going somewhere else, seeing something other than cornfields? I tried to assimilate, tried to be content just existing and watching the world around me; it just didn’t seem as interesting to me as it was to everyone else.

The ranch was peaceful and quiet. My father was still distant, but he seemed calmer and happier; he had his paints set up in the backyard, where he had a clear view of the clouds and sky. I would bring him his tea every afternoon, wondering how it made him so happy and wishing that I could try it.

There was an old barn just a few kilometers from our house. Over time, it became my safe space; my father furnished it with couches and tables, added a lighting system, and fixed the broken roof. I began to spend every waking second there, sometimes sleeping there as well. There were no houses around our ranch, so I had little opportunity to make friends. I didn’t mind; I was used to being alone.

Most days were sunny and dry, so when it rained I liked to make a day of it. I would close my eyes and listen to the storm, imagining I was listening to ocean waves crashing against the shore; I didn’t know what waves sounded like.

On one particularly rainy day, I brought my father his tea and prepared to walk over to the barn. When I had brewed the tea, I put too much water in the pot, so there was a bit of extra tea. I decided there was no reason for me not to have some--my father would never find out. When I reached the barn, I had already finished my tea. I sat down on one of the couches and closed my eyes.

The couch felt a little different today; my hands felt as if they were melting into the cushions and I felt as if I were lying on top of a body of water. I opened my eyes to check if the couch had somehow gotten wet from the rain, but when I looked, it was bone dry. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the wallpaper move. I did a double take, thinking maybe there was a spider on the wall or something. There was nothing there. As I stared at it, the wallpaper began to morph and dance; it looked like trees and grass blowing in the wind, constantly changing and moving, as if the wall itself was alive. I watched it for what felt like hours, fascinated by the beauty of it.

When I broke out of my trance, I brushed my fingers across my cheek and jumped in surprise when I felt hundreds of water droplets pouring down my face. I grabbed a cloth and rapidly wiped my face, but when I brought it away, there was no water on it.

I shook it off, thinking I was just tired and imagining things. The rain had since stopped, so I went outside and sat down on the grass; I felt very in tune with nature--every insect and blade of grass I considered a new friend. The clouds were moving in intricate spirals, and I watched them in awe. The moment was so magical I thought I had to capture it. I rushed back to my house. Everything I passed was moving in different ways, but it felt collective somehow, like one organism.

When I reached my house, I instantly went to my father’s stash of art supplies. I took to the barn everything I could carry--paints, canvas, stamps and more. I had never in my life enjoyed something as much as I enjoyed mimicking the movement of the world on the canvas. As the hours went by, everything began to slow to a stop, and the world became less alive. Nonetheless, something had been awakened in me. I finally understood the reason my father had found peace and contentment, and realized I had stumbled upon it myself.