a care package with tea and homemade granola
an edition of one
tasting notes: hot days, herbal tea, late-night drinks, morning snacks
Zoe fell in love and called her mother.
It was the middle of summer. It was hot, where she was -- not much hotter, in a literal sense, than where she'd grown up, but a spiritually different heat. It parched her, drained the liquid right out of her, and every time she wanted to tell this woman that she loved her, the words withered away and she could only croak.
This was doubly problematic because they'd been brought together -- by fate, by chance, by the wonders of the casting department -- to do a two-hander, set to open in just two weeks. She'd managed to support her vocal chords with slippery elm lozenges and salt water gargles and zinc, but it wouldn't last.
"You want a love potion?" her mother asked her with a smirk Zoe could hear.
"No! Ugh, I knew you'd be like this."
"Oh, darling, it's just so rare that I get to tease you any longer." A pause, something muffled in the background. "Your father says I ought to keep it up, so he can stay your favorite."
"Mom," Zoe complained.
"Okay, okay: tell me what you need, I think I can whip something up."
So Zoe explained. She explained how she felt when she saw her co-star, the joy they had and the easy camaraderie. She told her mother about how performing was fine -- but after each long day, as they'd drink and chat at the bar and then, before long, in one of their rooms, and... Zoe could feel the nervousness rising in her and sapping her voice.
"I was like that with your father," her mother admitted, after Zoe was finished. "Happened differently, but..."
Zoe was shocked. "Wait, really? I would've thought Dad was the tongue-tied one."
"Oh, he was. Always so awkward." She began to tell one of the age-old stories of Their Courtship and Zoe interrupted her. "Right, sorry. So it sounds like you need something for your throat. I'll ship it UPS tomorrow, watch your mailbox. Love you, bunny."
And then she was gone. Zoe texted, asking for clarification, but nothing was forthcoming.
This was on a Thursday, so there were two more days of rehearsal and excruciating sore throat and then the blessed day of rest on Sunday.
A knock on Zoe's door woke her from an afternoon nap and the brown-suited UPS man smiled as he handed her the package. "Have a nice day," he said and she smiled back at him.
Inside was a black bag with an herbal mixture that assaulted Zoe's sinuses. Only then did she read the note: "Don't sniff too close and DO NOT CHEW. Just steep it -- will help your throat. Which should help the other thing. Love, Mom."
There was also a jar of granola, which Zoe assumed was homemade. She smiled at the simple joy of getting a care package, even now, even grown as she was.
And then she brewed some tea.
She did, after all, have rehearsal tomorrow.