The Bear

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Late at night, around the full moon, a bear joins me for tea. I’m still getting used to it.

I suspect you're wondering how a bear can manage a teacup. The answer is—well, it’s not exactly a teacup. I’ll get to that shortly.

After long days of writing I’m often awoken by characters jabbering until the wee hours. These semi-frequent bouts of insomnia find me outside with a cup of tea. I've tried almost everything to get back to sleep, but only the sound of crickets, the night creatures, and a cup of tea seem to work.

Recently, a hulking figure emerged from the woods. His broad shoulders and lumbering gait came through my wife’s hedges, trampling the hydrangeas and boxwood. I’d always thought bears were noisy, but this one moved in near silence. Startled, I watched him sniff the air, his graying muzzle pointed skyward.

Clearly, a scent had captured his attention...until I realized, as he looked in my direction, it was my rooibos. I like it because it's soothing, but the bear found it irresistible—a blend from the local shop, it carries earthy, honey-like notes with hints of vanilla and fruit. He sidled up to the porch, lightly clawing at the stairs. In a panic, I set my cup down, ran inside and watched through the kitchen window as he tipped it over and lapped the warm tea from the decking.

The next evening, before the voices woke me, he left a small package—a twist of sticks and bark—on my back stoop. He was seemingly apologizing for his abrupt entrance. It wasn’t until I turned it over that I realized it was an ornamental sculpture of the two of us, he at the bottom of the stairs on the ground, and me at the top, each holding a teacup. I was taken aback, not just by its fine detail (which it certainly had), but by the likeness—down to my striped housecoat. But there was no mistaking the tableau, and no mistaking the intent: this bear was inviting himself for tea.