Somehow History

passes through us like this. I was a toddler,

enthralled as you dunked the metal globe

into your steaming cup. I watched

the water surrounding the sphere turn gold

like that crescent of sky that touches the sun

as it rises. The ball bobbed, radiating

amber. Later, I will learn of high tea,

of Empire, the colonies. You will tell me

of India’s independence, of your new sense of home,

in the stained cup where you poured the milk,

where it clouded the amber as you sang

“Tea for Two” and bounced me on your knee.

I wobbled—a child on one of history’s limbs.