And when you offer to listen,
you do so in the practiced ritual
of making tea.
You nod, pausing gingerly, your head
lowered over the kitchen surface.
You tend to me intensely through
the art of this instead,
the bag pressed tight,
strained right against the side
so it teases out darkly.
Bitter and teeth-sucked,
stained white china.
A chime of the spoon, the last
word, and then silence.
I find that a lot of my compatriots are much better at making tea than talking about mental health problems, as though one can be substituted for the other.