Peggy Heitmann

Great Grandmother Nina owned a teapot from China that served us hot tea and a bond that strengthened with each cup she served.

By the time she gave it to me, the bone China with pink roses brandished a chipped lip. Grandma Nina did not supply a lid when she gifted it to me, but I don’t care. The pot holds grace and elegance just like the woman of my memories who lived until my sophomore year of college. All those recollections steep into a sweet jasmine flavor now that she is gone.

I do not remember the day she gave it to me. I know the rose tea pot belonged to her, but I have owned it so many years I feel like it has been in my possession all my life.

When I say that I have owned it, that part is true. The other truth hinges on how I lost my treasure. It got swooped up by man who left me in a state of grief and anger that I caused. My teapot became a war treasure he locked away in his storage unit in New Orleans.

After the battles between my long-term partner and I cooled, we resumed our friendship. After fourteen years of separation from my cherished grandmother teapot, he mailed it back to me. Now, I adore it as though a dear, dear companion missing in action, left on the battlefield for more than a decade finally returned home.