the cup is small and dainty; a small porcelain dish, decorated with an exquisite collection of roses, with colours that would hardly feel out of place in a true garden. as i pick up the small cup, from its beautiful golden handle, i glance inside. the light brown liquid glances back, and as the reflection of the light gently catches the surface, the beverage appears to be winking. i give off a gentle smile in response. the aroma is welcoming, perhaps even recognisable. it appeared traceable to my childhood, yet the scent in itself was only plain tea. a swirl of steam flutters towards my face. i raise the cup towards my lips, and take a small sip. immediately, the heat is a surprise, at first, but it soon becomes welcoming. the soft taste is comforting, and after a few sips, the entire beverage is gone. yet the memory lives on. one cup of perfection.
