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.