Summer in a cup of tea

My friend returned from Fuzhou, China, and brought me a can of jasmine tea. The tin can looks unimpressive, but when I opened it, I heard a crisp sigh - that's the sound of dry tea leaves touching petals, like stepping on fallen leaves in autumn.

I picked up a pinch to take a closer look. The dark green tea base was curled, with scattered white specks among it, which were dehydrated jasmine petals. They shrunk into small, yellowish-white rolls, so fragile that I didn't dare to apply any force. When I sniffed closely, I was greeted by a fresh and fragrant aroma - so fragrant! The aroma was alive, as if it had just been plucked from the branches, still carrying the coolness of the night dew. My friend said that this tea had been scented seven times. When I asked him what "scented" meant, he laughed and said, "It's just letting the tea leaves and flowers sleep together. When they wake up, the tea leaves will remember the soul of the flowers."

I boiled some water. In the glass cup, the tea leaves settled at the bottom. I poured the hot water down from above, watching the curled leaves slowly unfurl in the whirlpool. At the same time, those withered jasmine petals also unfolded, as if waking up from a long dream. The tea soup gradually turned into a clear light golden color, and the aroma - initially subtle, like being filtered through a gauze curtain; slowly, the aroma spread out layer by layer. First came the refreshing scent of jasmine, followed by the freshness of green tea, and finally, there was a faint sweetness, like the wind under the old locust tree in my childhood grandmother's yard.

I held the cup in my hands, lost in thought. I remembered that when I was young, my grandmother also loved to drink flower tea. In the big enamel cylinder, there were always a few jasmine flowers floating. On summer afternoons, she would sit on the rattan chair, with the tea cylinder placed at her feet, and the fan swinging absentmindedly. The tea was always thick and bitter, but she drank it sweetly. I secretly took a sip, but only remembered the astringency, not understanding why adults liked it. Now, upon reflection, I realize that what she drank was not the tea, but the momentary leisure on that sultry afternoon. When the tea cooled down, she would squint her eyes and fall asleep amidst the cicada songs.

Nowadays, I have also started drinking flower tea. During work breaks, steam rises gently, and those tiny jasmine petals float and sink in the water. I suddenly felt that they resemble certain fragments in my memory - you think they have long withered and faded, but as long as they are steeped in warm moments, they become as fresh as ever.

This cup of tea, by the second steep, has lost its aroma but retains a hint of lingering sweetness. It's like the end of summer, no longer as passionate, yet there's still warmth in the breeze. I put away the jar, thinking that perhaps next time I steep tea, I should put less tea leaves and more flower petals. After all, life is short, and it's worth indulging in a little luxury for this fleeting joy.