It’s not the real glass of tea, amber colored and tall. Tea of my boyhood. The Strindberg Cafe, Helsinki, end of day, late winter, candles burning, and the imperial drink tossing red on a blind child’s retinas. The real glass of tea vanished long ago. The tea in memory is what’s left, more beautiful day by day, pouring from the samovar of a little boy’s fascinations–tea of beginnings; tea from a wishing well; sunset in his father’s hands.