You turn my key; a rough edge scrapes my mother-of-pearl escutcheon.  You run your index finger over the small abrasion. The spoon slips into the dark curled leaves, wrinkled and dry with the faint aroma of bergamot.  They will not come alive without the scalding water from the kettle.  It hums and purrs, poised to unfurl my treasured contents. A… Read it