With shaking hands,
she pushed the cup that contained more dust than tea across the table.
The thin blanket of gray
covering the drink tickled my upper lip but not wanting to offend,
More than any person I've encountered,
before or since,
she was an unending source of both tear drops and dust.
Even her voice
seemed wrapped in a warm woolen layer of duress and static,
a voice that was continually cracking on the edge of emotion,
receiving interference from some unknown
I think she was probably catching signals from deep space.
Some said that she saved her many tear drops
and served them to guests in their drinks.
I held my breath with each swallow,
dreading the discovery of a hint of salt
at the end of every sip.