Cold Sunday morning, and I made tea.
I added milk and sugar to it, tapped in cinnamon, and sat on the couch.
I read, worked, drank. The mug got lighter. Until I knew, without even looking, that there was nothing left in it.
I stood, took the mug, and went to rinse it. Lowering it into the sink, I saw that it wasn’t empty. It was almost empty. A last little puddle of tea waited at the bottom of the mug.
Eh, what’s the point? I thought, sponge in hand. It’s finished.
Except that wasn’t true. The last little puddle of tea is still tea.
Like the last little match can still start a flame. The last little seed can still become a zinnia or a birch tree. And the last little nub of a candle can still ease the darkness.
Standing over the sink, I thought that I didn’t want to be the person who discounted, devalued the last little. Who forgot that volume isn’t the only way to measure power.
So, I pulled the mug out of the sink. I drank the rest. And no doubt about it, that last little puddle was the strongest tea in the whole mug.