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Chyina Powell Silence but for the sound of tea leaves being sifted into an old Brown Betty. The smell of damp leaves wafting in from the open kitchen window reminded her that autumn was well on its way. Sighing into the tea, Ebony concerned herself with sugar cubes and cream, a small respite from her thoughts, thoughts of gourds and crunching leaves, smells of pumpkin pie and apple cider. Instead she dutifully washed an apple, sliced it on her bamboo cutting board, a gift from someone special, and made her way into the sitting room. Filled with soft music in a language she couldn’t understand, the sitting room was where she’d taken tea since moving into the house. A tray covered with all the requisite dressings in her hands as though she had guests, but she had not entertained in some time. Yet the routine soothed her and thus she kept it up every afternoon at one thirty. While music played, she took note of her belongings and herself. Today she chose to focus on a decorative egg purchased by some relative and regifted until it had finally reached her hands. Hand-painted horses and orchids gazed up at her from its cream façade, asking her why no one had wanted it. In truth, Ebony kept it simply because it was a gift, proof that someone still thought of her, even if these thoughts didn’t amount to much. She’d never understood the purpose of such knickknacks, impractical, space-consuming conversation pieces. She’d rather spend money on food, utensils, clothing, tools. Every item the woman had ever purchased had purpose. Utilitarian. That was the word for it. The egg sat on her mantle, second item from the middle, and it stuck out against the dark wood that came from an old boat made by an even older man who’d seemed to put Shou 52
