Remembering

Every Thursday morning, Dad would get up early to make a pot of tea. He’d put a banana on a plate, with a knife, because he always used one to make a cut at the base of the stalk to make it easier to peel. Or neater maybe. He was fastidious like that, in strange little ways. So I’d come out to find everything ready for my usual rushed breakfast, the morning after my weekly dinner and sleepover at Mum and Dad’s place, before making the trek back into the city. And because he knew I had to throw things down so quickly before running for the bus, he’d pour me a mug of hot tea, then add a dash of cold water to bring it to gulping temperature. He’d always remember.
Every morning I remember too. I make my mug of tea, then take it to the sink for a quick twist of the cold tap. It’s just one small ritual which hurts sometimes, and helps. It reminds me of the care I took for granted, and which I go on missing. Two years on, I’m learning to cherish these daily moments of memory.