In this house, there is always mate.
Most people drink it from a pretty little gourd, and we do, sometimes, but this little white cup with a rose on it is my favorite. It sits at the ready on our counter-top, sometimes still warm and full of tea from the morning, sometimes empty as it waits for tomorrow.
I can picture my mom as a child in Argentina, passing mate around with her Italian family; but now here we are--one olive skinned woman and one fair skinned--taking quick sips together in the morning before we leave the quiet house.
I think about my father and the freckles and Irish names he passed down to my brother and me, and then I think more deeply about that white cup with a rosy exterior, filled with another culture. It makes sense to me.