Rosemary’s kitchen was still dark when hazel came down the stairs. Habitually, she went to flip the light switch by the stairs- in her house, the light switch for the kitchen was right by the stairs.

She touched only bare wall.

Hazel had a flashback to the summer she turned twelve at rosemary’s house. When she walked down the stairs on the morning of her birthday, the kitchen was lit solely by beeswax candles. And Rosemary was plating a the most epic tray of sourdough cinnamon rolls, surrounded by a pool of fresh blueberries and sliced peaches rosemary had picked the day before.

A record played softly in the background. This specific morning it was Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie.

Every morning before the sun rose, she lit nag champa incense, the smell and smoke drifting through the house, drenching every single inch with the fragrance of connection. The smoke seeping underneath all the doors and pouring through the cracks.

The kitchen was illuminated by the realness of beeswax candles. They were everywhere, creating an atmosphere that can only be described as rich, real, aliveness.

Rosemary never said it out loud, but it was clear that she wanted a life that felt real, where her home and everything in it was alive. The candles lit up the room like parifine never could and certainly worlds away from overhead lights.

As hazel walked downstairs that morning on her twelfth birthday, Rosemary’s face was glowing, illuminated by the shine of the twelve tall and thin candles decorating the cinnamon roll platter. Rosemary made everything feel so sacred and special. Every detail mattered- not in a showy way- she just believed in making every moment of every day feel important and hazel felt that always when she visited rosemary’s farm.

This morning, though, the lack of electric lights in the house was startling and hazel found herself frantic and frustrated. When her hand grazed the bare wall in search of the light switch, she moaned the sound of annoyance. Why couldn’t it just be easy to make coffee? She fumbled her way through the kitchen and bumped into the corner of the table “ahhhh! Damn table. I just want light. I need coffee. Jesus, rosemary! Help me,” she screamed.

There was something about rosemary’s house that simply didn’t allow for sleeping in even though it was the only thing hazel really wanted- all she thought she needed to fully reset was a good night’s sleep. Hazel always assumed it was rosemary’s morning rituals that woke everyone up when they stayed over. But here she was in rosemary’s house- rosemary’s physical body no longer present- and she was still awake before the sun. There was something about the place that pulled you out of bed. Not in a way that made you excited or eager, but rather in a way that held the frequency of knowing it’s time to wake up.

Eventually Hazel found her way to the drawer by the sink where Rosemary kept the matches. Always matches. No lighter in sight. “Why can’t it just be easy, Rosemary? Why?” Hazel said looking up toward the sky.

Hazel struck a match prepared to light the candles on the kitchen table at least so she could start her coffee. The first two matches broke. Finally one held light and she lit the three candles on the table. It provided enough light to maneuver around the kitchen without tripping at least. She didn’t have the patience to light the rest of the candles. She scrummaged through the kitchen in desperate search of ground coffee and a coffee maker. She opened every single cubbard and drawer. Hazel never remembered her grandmother drinking coffee but she also hadn’t stayed in her house since becoming a coffee drinker herself. Everyone she knew drank coffee first thing in the morning- not only drank it, but made it with the little plastic pods so it was easy and effortless and fast so they could quickly pour it into their massive insulated on-the-go cups and rush out the door. It never crossed her mind that an adult wouldn’t have coffee or a coffeemaker.

But as she thought about it, she realized in that moment she’d never seen Rosemary drink coffee. There was always a pot of tea on the kitchen table, beside her on the swing outside, on the porch, beside her bed, in the living room. But Hazel never smelled coffee.

At this point Hazel felt like a wound up ball about to explode. Milo came to mind with his annoying but clearly helpful deep breaths and she took one for herself and dove into the world of rosemary’s tea collection.

There were mostly herbal blends and a massive stash of rosemary’s favorite: jasmine green tea. But Hazel needed something stronger. In the back, she found a tin of black tea from Taiwan. This will have to do, she thought.

She found a copper kettle, filled it with water and proceeded to the old manual gas stove . This felt overwhelming and unnecessarily complicated. Hazel was used to an electric stove where she pressed two buttons and the stovetop was instantly heated to her desired temperature. This one had no buttons.

Hazel stood in front of the stove made of iron and enamel. It felt more like a monument one would find at a museum than an appliance. All these details of rosemary’s life that went unnoticed when she was young because rosemary danced through her day. Nothing ever seemed to frustrate or wind her up. To Hazel, there was nothing convenient about rosemary’s house yet growing up, it never phased her or crossed her mind because while Rosemary was boiling water on the gas stove for tea, Hazel would be sitting at the kitchen table playing with the melted wax from the candles, dipping her fingers into the pools of soft wax and letting it harden on her fingers until she could easily remove it creating tiny little sculptures from the mound of her fingertips that resembled little hills and mountains. She was display them on the table creating scenes, designs, and patterns paying no attention to all the steps Rosemary took to brew a pot of tea.

She four thick burners and the row of stubborn and well-used knobs stared at her and she stared back. She started by twisting one of the knobs and nothing happened. She tried again, this time the stove hissed at her. That sound. The faint hissing sound of breath being breathed. Now that sound she remembered. It carried her into a movie in her mind where she could see rosemary’s strong yet graceful hands turning the knob, the stove breathing and hissing, the sound of a match striking. The light of the flame. Rosemary tilting the flame effortlessly toward the burner. Whuff- the flame catches and the burner is alive. She could almost smell the sulfur, residue from the burned match, and fire in that moment.

Actually, that was exactly what she was smelling. The gas oozing looking for fire to ignite the burner. She snapped out of the daydream and proceeded to light yet another match that broke in half instantly. “The goddam matches are going to break me. I swear! What am I doing here?”

The second match caught fire and she tilted it toward the burner just like she recalled rosemary’s weathered hands doing all those years ago. Only Hazel did not make it look graceful or effortless. It was dramatic and chaotic. When the match lit the gas, it didn’t merely ignite the burner, but rather the gas swallowed the little light from the match, as if it was hungry, and a blue flame bloomed powerfully. Hazel panicked at the size of it and jumped back. She threw a mini tantrum just like Finn often does when he can’t get his legos to stick together due to the size of his tiny hands. Then she walked back toward the stove of intimidation and turned the porcelain knob to the left which calmed the flame.

She put the kettle on the burner and waited. In the waiting, she wondered if Rosemary really waited this long every single morning for her tea? It felt so much harder than it needed to be.

Hazel found her mind drifting yet again. Totally out of the moment and in another world. The hissing of the kettle alerting that the water was ready snapped her out of it and she came back to the moment.

She sorted a teaspoon of loose black tea leaves into a tea pot- she assumed a teaspoon would be the appropriate amount. It was called a TEAspoon after all. She poured the hot water over the hard leaves and watched them turn soft instantly with the touch of hot water, which made her realize in that moment of awareness that hot water doesn’t always have to burn. Sometimes it can soften what was once hard.

She let her tea steep for a few minutes (which was way too long for black tea, but what did she know about tea). She poured the over brewed tea into a vintage porcelain tea cup and walked outside. Now the first light of the day was beginning to make its grand appearance. Golden threads of the sun’s morning rays beaming as if coming right out of the earth itself.

Hazel walked barefoot and sipped her strong black tea. The sound of a mourning dove in the tree above her, the smell of dew and wet soil beneath her and for the first time in year, she let herself be still.