A small spoon went missing and where
it went could be anybody’s guess.
I looked every place: in, under, around,
thinking that I had dropped it or
misplaced it or, possibly, lost it.

How could that be?

For months, maybe years,
it had rested on top of a Chinese
brocade box that sat above
the small bamboo cupboard
that held porcelain sipping cups.

Important enough to be treasured.

Every morning I had used the spoon
to scoop up the appropriate amount
of green, oolong, black, or pu-erh
for the decorative strainer basket
in my tiny stainless-steel tea pot.

Indispensable and it had disappeared.

I gave up seeking and searching.
I gave up worrying and blaming
myself for being incompetent,
forgetful, or hopelessly mindless.
I forgave myself and moved on.

Yet the new spoon never felt right.

Yesterday, I opened up an old tin
of Sanctified Black, finely ground
by sequestered monks who used
mortars and pestles to create rare
tea fairly smelling of redemption.

And there, upright, stood the spoon.

I laughed. It laughed back. I said,
“So, this is where you have been.”
And it said, “Where else would I be
except right where you left me?”
I asked, “Were you all right in the dark?”

“I could not stir nor serve, so I sat, waiting.”

~LJ