The Morning Sachet

The kitchen was silent when I pulled myself up onto the granite counter. Near the electric kettle, a box of black tea sat open. I selected a single sachet, gripping the small square paper tag between my gloved thumb and forefinger. It smelled of dried mountain herbs and dark leaves. Moving with deliberate footing across the polished stone, I carried it to a clean ceramic mug. I lowered the pouch inside, centering it squarely at the base, then looped the cotton string once around the curved handle to keep it anchored. Everything in order. The morning is set.