A Half-Finished Glass of Sweet Tea

Dear Friend,

I’ve been working my way through the endless sea of boxes that are piled in each room. I was lucky enough that first night to get the essentials unpacked in the kitchen, but outside of that, everything stands in utter disarray around me. I’ve been here a week now in this new home.

I’ve taken to stepping outside often. I allow my feet to wander through the grass unbidden and unhurried. I’ve been listening to the sounds in the neighborhood, getting to know it by simply being present.

One of my neighbors stopped by yesterday with a pound cake that changed my life. I’m pretty determined now to make Joanie my dearest friend, just so I’ll have the chance to enjoy a pound cake like this again and again.

In all seriousness though, the neighbors are a waving bunch. Each time they walk or drive past the house and see me, they raise their hand in greeting. It’s sweet.

Last night was the first night that the air didn’t make me feel like I was slowly choking to death in a steam room, so I decided to sit out on the porch. It was the first time I’d enjoyed the neighborhood at that time of day. Honestly, I felt like I’d stepped back in time. The neighborhood was bustling. People were walking to and from porches, swinging open screened doors to sit a spell before dipping off to visit another porch.

I observed for a while before someone came slowly, creaking up the two porch steps I have. Unlike some of my neighbors, my porch isn’t screened in. The woman, one I hadn’t seen before, smiled at me and introduced herself as Mags.

She carried with her a pitcher and glasses, which struck me at once as being odd, and also completely appropriate. Mags wore a lovely pale blue kaftan over a white linen outfit. She wore her hair short, close to her head, and it was wonderfully pure white. She floated over to my loveseat and sat down, making herself right at home.

She began talking, telling me all about the neighborhood; apparently, she’s lived here her whole life. She filled me in on some of the neighbors— which one I could borrow sugar from, which one always had the best biscuits, and who I could easily coax into helping me move things.

She poured us a glass of sweet tea. I was incredibly grateful for the sound of ice clinking inside the glass. The tea was perfectly sweet and refreshing. I’ve never been much for sweet tea, but I know living here in the South will change that. Assimilation, right?

When she finished telling me everything she considered important for the neighborhood, she turned her piercing blue eyes and looked into my soul, saying, “Now, it’s your turn.”

While her eyes weren’t intimidating, the look clearly told me she wasn’t going to allow me to get off with fluff. So, I told her a little of my story, starting with where I came from and how I got here.

It felt strange sitting there pouring my heart out to a stranger. For all I knew, she could be the neighborhood gossip.

And yet, it felt right to tell her. She sipped and listened, asking questions as my clipped confession turned to deep conversation. I found my shoulders relaxing, especially as she eased herself further into the cushions. Her eyes rarely moved from me. I expected to feel uncomfortable under her intense gaze, but I didn’t.

Instead, I felt seen.

We talked well into the night, long past the time when other neighbors shut their porch lights off and went inside. At the end of it, Mags put her drink down and hugged me to her hard.

She told me I was safe, and she told me she was thrilled to have a new friend. She didn’t judge me. She didn’t look at me like the failure I feel like I am most days. She looked a little like she was welcoming me home, which really doesn’t make much sense to me…Nevertheless, that’s how it felt.

It was disarming how easily she just pulled me in. Her willingness to listen, to accept me here in this place is something I’ve not experienced. Maybe I’m jaded. I’ve heard Southerners consider us Yankees jaded.

I’m reminded of a t-shirt I saw recently that said, “A little bit Yankee and a little bit Y’all.” Maybe I can be that here. At least, that’s how Mags made me feel.

So there you have it, friend. Over half a glass of sweet tea, I confessed my story to a stranger, and I think I’ve made a friend.

The move’s still been hard. Nothing is organized. I’m still scared. Everything feels messy, and sometimes the loneliness of it all is palpable.

Yet still, one of those waving neighbors took time to get up on my porch and listen. And that’s meant the world during this time.

When was the last time someone let you tell your story before you’d even unpacked the boxes? Maybe it’s time for me to learn to be that person for someone else.

Until next time,

—A Friend from Magnolia Isle