Chilly, raw, damp in New York City. Running errands in preparation for the memorial of a friend. Crossing Central Park, wind stirring the cherry trees, blossoms raining down.

And what nicer than a bowl of hot, milky chai on returning home? I warm my hands with a favorite vessel, made by my friend Frances Palmer; my favorite teas come from my friend, Sebastian Beckwith, at In Pursuit of Tea. Their presence, through these things, consoles. Somewhat. But this is a time when the comfort of friends is needed. I sip, and ponder absent friends. 


Anonymous said...

I just read your article in Bazaar and although i'm only 27 (28 in July) I really like your idea of "going where the love is" thank you.

Zane said...

This one time my dad was driving me when I was 3 or 4 years old and he kept going through puddles. My mom warned him that he was going to damage the car but he wouldn't listen. A day later he founds out that he did indeed ruin the car. He never raced through puddles with his car again.