Mother hangs her tea bags on the door, winds the strings around the knob. Drips, like paw prints, stain the old wood floor. I don’t know why she does it. She never uses them again. After her tea she gets the big pot and scrubs vegetables for soup. Her knife is rhythmic on the cutting board, her felt slippers scuffing from counter to stove and back again. I see her mouth move sometimes as she sways, mincing, mincing her life.